Syphon
by stachysbyzantina
Summary: Life is a series of endings and beginnings. A beginning is just one of many endings, because even in death, there is life, and in life, death. A new beginning is all one can ask for, but what price would you pay for something that will begin, only to end again. M for language and violence
1. it was June

Syphon

Chapter one: it was June

Up until now, Al was the light of his life.

When Ed brought back Al's body, things had started to turn around. He felt joy, _joy_. He hadn't felt joy in such a long time. The feeling was new, exciting. But the joy didn't last, something else settled inside his chest, something heavy. Heaviness replaced so many of his feelings, even breathing had become burdensome. He felt like the world had come to a complete stop, his momentum gone, his feet nailed to the earth.

Edward knew that he couldn't take much more, enough was enough, and if he were to go on, his bones might break. It was time to stop, to take things one day at a time, _let things go_. He couldn't, though. _He couldn't let things go_ , they hurt too much, so he only held on tighter. He held onto the most painful of memories, not because he had to, but because he _deserved_ to. The memory of his mother, not his mother, the monster that he created. Al, his brother, who he used as a human sacrifice. And Nina, a child, who didn't deserve to die, not like _that_.

The list could go on for miles, endlessly, signed with his blood, a contract. Many of his actions had fueled the impending tragedies, actions that he regretted, and even at the time, knew were wrong. _He knew._ Al questioned him, trying to keep him in check, but he ignored Al. Al was just trying to help, but he was trying to make a point, _about something_. Whatever the point was, or why he felt as though he had to make one, was the main problem. He had been reckless with his intentions, thinking that they were true, that _he_ knew the truth. Because he had seen the truth, but that didn't mean that he could change things, he was just a _child_.

People died because of his pride, because he wouldn't listen. He wasn't even old enough to understand that there was a purpose to following rules, to maintain order, to make sure that everyone was safe. He had so many misunderstandings of the world, so many ideas of how the world should be and how it could be changed. But he was looking at the world through a keyhole, a small section, and even when he traveled to new places, it seemed as though the keyhole narrowed. With every new assignment, with every new landscape, with every new person, he became angry with their narrowmindedness. And he began to understand something about himself, that he needed the world to change so that he could remain the same. Irresponsible, refusing to accept responsibility, reckless, _rampant_ , because that was what _he_ wanted.

Al didn't understand that, and he didn't understand that Edward needed things, he couldn't feel, _he was a suit of armor_. Al didn't need anything, which made Edward feel guilty, guilty that Al was empty, guilty that he made Al empty. Al would always assure him that what they had done was _their_ decision, but it wasn't. Ed had made that decision, _he_ alone, forcing Al to participate. It was like he was being strangled, speaking to his brother, but he would continue to smile, comfort him, offer him cheer, _and hope_. He had no reason to hope but he fed it to Al, and Al consumed it. He would find himself feeling guilty all over again, _ashamed_ , because every word that came out of his mouth was a lie, and he had come to terms with that.

He had to lie, he needed to lie, it was one of the things that he had to do to get by, and if he hadn't, he would have crumbled. He had to lie to himself, he was scared, but he couldn't fight his fear, so he would try to convince himself that he wasn't afraid. The truth was that Al might not get his body back, and that he would eventually fade away, and that _scared_ him. So he pretended that he was in control of an uncontrollable situation, searching for a cure that didn't exist, but he had to hold onto the possibility that it was real, so that he could fix Al. His fear made him feel helpless, like a child, but he was a child, and no one forced him to step down. They let him dig his own grave, six feet, eight feet, ten feet, deeper and deeper, they even handed him the shovel.

His fear had to become irrelevant, it would only discourage him, destroy him, and he couldn't let Al see him that way. _He had to be strong_ , he had to take care of Al, protect him, all the while trying not to fall apart. It was unfair, all of the things that he had to sacrifice, just so that everything might turn out OK in the end. All Al had to do was exist, while Edward had to force himself to eat, to sleep, _to go on_. Al didn't get tired, he didn't dream, he didn't have to live with his own consequences, just the consequences of another. He couldn't feel pain, he couldn't feel the screws underneath his skin, _inside his bones_ , the weight of metal, or the smell the rust. He couldn't get sick, his automail would never fester, nor could he bleed, because he was free of those things. Al was in a cage, the same as Ed, just a different cage. It was Edward's job to get Al out of that cage, _but at what cost_.

But that was before, now things were different. Al had moved back to Resembool, he was weak, it was understandable. Al had asked Ed to come too, but he declined, deciding to stay in Central. It wasn't that he didn't want to go home, there was a deep yearning in him to return to Resembool, but he couldn't bring himself to go. He couldn't go, he couldn't take the guilt, knowing what he had done, knowing that the very place _remembered_ what he had done. And deep down, he didn't want to see Al, he needed there to be a space between them. It was hard to admit that he was sick of Al, but they had spent so much time together over the years, Al taking what little energy that he had left. He had never had a moment to himself, Al watched him eat and sleep, befriended who he befriended, present every second of every day. Over the years, with Al so close, his smile had become strained, and perhaps he wasn't even smiling, just grimacing.

Al had been living with Winry for some time now, they were in love. They were engaged, Winry planning the wedding, sewing her own dress. Edward wasn't mad that they had gotten together, he never loved Winry, and at times, he even disliked her. He had destroyed his arm so many times, hoping that someone would tell him _enough_ , but Winry would soon appear to fix it. But his arm and his leg were just a painful reminder of his failures, of his faults, _of his fears_. Because he was afraid, _always afraid_. He was going to die afraid, knowing that the consequences were great, knowing that there would be nothing left of him to travel to the other side. There were only so many things that a person could sacrifice, Edward knew that, because he was beginning to run out.

Edward thought that maybe, one day, he would just disappear, _just leave_. He could go anywhere, start again, he could be someone other than the Fullmetal Alchemist. He could be Ed, do things that Ed likes to do, or do nothing, whatever he wanted. Because if he didn't leave, if he remained beholden to the military, he was going to waste away. And if he didn't leave, he would have to see his brother, resent Al in his happiness, pretending that he was happy, _for him_. That would be like shooting himself in the stomach, a slow and painful death. He had begun to think that he didn't have it in himself to leave everything behind, even though he had done it once before, because he knew that he deserved to be unhappy, _that was the price_.

Even though Al had gotten his body back, Edward still had to live with his mistakes, _the metal ones_. What he had sacrificed to gate hadn't been enough, the price greater than what they could have imagined, _unimaginable_ , even. Edward was a scientist, what they were doing wasn't science, he had no domain there, no knowledge. No one really had the knowledge, only the ones who gave warning, but even then, no one was satisfied with _just_ a warning. Even Ed, who knew better, had never given the warning a second thought, thinking that he was superior to all who failed before him. But he had failed, _twice_ , and he still hadn't learned his lesson. He supposed that his brother's life was worth the risk, his mother's not so much, because if he had just moved on, they could have lived their lives, _normally_. Edward could have been a scientist, a real one, Al could have been a baker, and both of them would be whole. But Edward knew that things would never have worked out, they never do, and he probably would have done something else equally as stupid to end up where he was now.

And now, where was he exactly? He was somewhere between PTSD and wanting to schedule a lobotomy _._ The years had finally caught up with him, and with nothing to keep him busy, he had to _think_. He had to lay in bed at night, his heart beating, breathing through his mouth, gasping for air. He knew that nothing could hurt him, he was safe, but the terror that drove him to change his life was now driving a knife through his chest. He couldn't sleep, he would lay in bed for hours, exhausted by unwarranted fear, begging for a moment of peace. But there was no peace, he had given up his right to have peace, not once, but twice. He couldn't work, he was too afraid. He was afraid that he might have to see something terrible, fight someone vicious, enduring more of what he was truly afraid of. His fear was not that there was suffering in the world, but that there was no end to it, and that _his_ suffering, _his sacrifice_ , was endless.

It had become difficult to do his job, he couldn't handle the violence, and became physically ill upon seeing the act. He couldn't fight anymore, fear replacing his fight or flight instinct, frozen. He just wasn't the same, _he had changed_ , unknowingly, _unwillingly_. He was forced to change, not for the better, but because if he hadn't, he might have been able to move on with his life. That may have led to happiness, but he didn't _deserve_ happiness. He had gotten what he deserved, his just deserts, for believing that he could challenge something that he could not touch, and for having the audacity to have _hope_. Because the only thing that he had ever believed in, really believed in, was equivalent exchange, and even that had been a lie.

And now, Al was coming to Central to visit Ed, it had been six months since the last time, a distance that seemed to stretch further and further apart. Edward knew that Al didn't want to come, their banter had become stressed, Al holding a mostly, _almost fully_ , one-sided conversation with himself. Ed was never really sure what to say, he had run out of things to congratulate Al for, and Al didn't need his reassurance or his advice, not anymore. Al was wise to not ask for advice, he had seen what Edward had done with his life and he had seen the choices that Ed had made, why would he want to replicate them?

Edward had never really grown up, he went from being a child to an adult overnight, nothing in between. He had never learned the skills to live in the real world, he knew death, and violence, _pain_ , but what did those things have to do with contributing to society. It didn't matter how smart that he was, or what he _could_ contribute, he had already squandered his intelligence and replaced it with fear, the fear of learning, fear of the future, _fear_. He was just a body to the military, _not even a whole body_ , easily replaced, expendable. And one day, the military was going to send him to his death, and he would go willingly, without question. At least it gave him a purpose, _something to look forward to_.

Edward had once believed that he was going to do something great, that he was going to change the world, make it better. But he was just pushing paper in the investigations department, documenting dead bodies, arresting murderers and child molesters. It was only on occasion that he went out into the field, and when he did, he ended up taking the rest of the day off, hiding in his apartment out of _fear_. He supposed that things could have turned out differently, but he had surrendered his alchemy to the gate for Al, and now, he was nothing without it. He had to tell himself that it was worth it, to give up something so precious for his brother, but he didn't really believe that.

He didn't believe in anything.


	2. it was July

Syphon

Chapter two: it was July

Ed was always anxious when Al came to visit, he felt like he was being interrogated, or tolerated, it was hard to tell. Al was always kind, understanding, he didn't make excuses, not like Ed did. Ed knew that Al was trying to reach him, coerce some kind of reaction, make him smile, make him _laugh_. But Al had forgotten everything that had happened, he remembered their mother, how she was sweet, a saint, but after that, he only remembered waking up, whole again. Ed never brought up what _had_ happened, only mentioning pieces, the best parts, _if there were any_. It would have been too painful to tell Al everything all at once, or even one event at a time, Ed didn't have the heart.

Roy had offered to tell Al the truth, so did Riza, but Ed had volunteered, veering further and further from the truth. He told Al that _he_ had tried to bring their mother back, that something went wrong, that it was _his_ fault. He told Al that he was a suit of armor, temporarily, until they found the stone, never really stating how many years had passed. Ed never added in any extra details, like how their dead mother was a monster, or that he had unintentionally sacrificed his brother, or that he had found the stone, _or that he had used it_.

Roy had suggest to Ed, once or twice, to let Al read all of the case files pertaining to the stone, thinking that something might jog his memory. But Ed knew that the paperwork following the investigation was horrendous, haphazard, stating that the stone had been found, but shorty destroyed thereafter. That Mustang had headed the investigation, that Riza was second in command, and that Ed, young as he may have been, was also involved. It stated that Hughes had been murdered during the investigation, the identity of the shooter undetermined, Hughes having acquired knowledge of great importance. The file, however, did not include any information on the stone, like who had found it, or why it was destroyed, just a side note, something about Edward having had his hands on it, if only momentarily, or if at all.

But Mustang had seen Ed holding the stone, and afterwards, when Al had suddenly appeared in flesh, had asked Ed where the stone had gone. Ed said that it had crumbled in his hands, that it wasn't real, that it was fake, never quite disclosing as to whether he had used it or not. Mustang had not believed him at first, knowing that the stone was the only way to bring Al back, but Ed had made up some convoluted explanation as to how he had done it, _without the stone_. And Mustang had believed him, for a time, thinking that Edward wasn't that stupid, that he wouldn't dare open the gate a second time. But Ed knew that Mustang was beginning to suspect his actions, and perhaps, even leading a quiet investigation, or an inquiry, as to how Edward had obtained any and all of his information.

Ed would be lying if he said that all of his information was obtained legally, or _legitimately_ , for that matter. Ed had done things out of fear, to survive, never letting anyone see that he wasn't such a good person, _ethically speaking_. He wasn't proud of those things, he was desperate, and he was _tired_. Ed wouldn't call it treason, _exactly_ , or torture, _per say_ , but it was a bit of a grey area. When Al was occupied, Ed would slip away, conducting his own personal investigation, off the books. Most of his information was _forcefully_ obtained, but he made it seem as though he had stumbled upon it, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing out of place. It gave him the appearance of being trustworthy, _honest_ , and whatever information that he acquired, fairly or unfairly, he kept to himself. So if he were to discover something, like the stone, he would never have to lie about what he had done, because there wouldn't have been any witnesses.

But that was the past, all he could do now was wait, because the train from Resembool was late, _again_. Ed didn't mind waiting at the station, but the longer that he waited, the more uneasy he became. His stomach felt heavy, _like lead_ , and his hands were shaking, _the PTSD_ , the world seemingly closing in on him. He was distracted, suddenly, by the whistle of the train, drawing his attention to the distance. The trained slowed, screeching, coming to a halt. Al used to be the first off the train, bounding towards Edward in delight, but nowadays, it felt as though Al was the last, reluctant to exit the train. But Al arrived, regardless, and greeted Ed with a halfhearted hug.

Al pulled away and smiled, "How are you, Ed? You look," and he paused, unsure of the right words, " _well?_ "

It was true that Ed had not been taking care of himself, and it was clear enough, if not obvious, that he was sick. Time had not been kind to Ed, nor his automail, or more specifically, the port and the skin underneath it. When Ed was young, he was healthy enough to fight the infection, but now, he was malnourished, and his ability to heal had been exhausted as he was suffering from _exhaustion_. The infection had only gotten worse over time, his skin had begun to fester, followed by fevers, night sweats, nausea and vomiting. The skin around his ports would swell, abscess, and only until he found the strength to remove the pus, the _poison_ , would he find any relief. His body had been rejecting his automail since day one, and he had never told anyone, _he just lived with it_.

Ed backed away, ushering Al to follow him, "What about you, you look good."

Al smiled again, "Winry and I have been on a health kick, she wants us to look our best for the wedding. She's got us jogging and drinking green stuff, you know, _the works_." Al was looking at Ed, who was hailing a cab, "Are you listening, Ed?"

The drive to Central had been spent in silence. Al was the one to break the silence, insisting on seeing Roy and Riza, wanting to personally give them their save-the-dates. Ed didn't want to go, Al could tell, but Ed agreed, nonetheless, getting out of the cab and following Al inside the building. When they arrived at the Colonel's door, Al quickly opened the door, rushing inside, while Ed, reluctant, walked in after him. Upon seeing Al, everyone in the room stood to greet him, hugging him, telling him how much they had _missed_ him, while Edward lingered further behind.

Roy was the first to speak, smiling, placing his hands on Al's shoulders in admiration, "Alphonse, how have you been, _where_ have you been, things just aren't the same around here without you." But Roy stopped smiling when he noticed Ed standing across the room, displaced, as did everyone else, " _Ed?_ "

After Al's body had been restored, Ed had resigned as an alchemist, never stating why, and filed for a transfer to a different department. Long story short, Hughes was dead, end of story, investigations department Ed goes. Ed had never said anything about it, he just didn't show up one day.

Al seemed confused, his expression one of uncertainty, "I know he's not supposed to be here, but he took the day off to spend it with me," Al offered a small smile, "please don't be upset, Colonel."

Roy also seemed confused, not knowing exactly what to say, struggling to find some way of avoiding an unavoidable situation. So Roy smiled, turning his attention back to Alphonse, "So what do we owe the pleasure, new bread recipe, _I hope_."

Al dug around in his bag for a moment, producing seven envelopes, "I had to drop off my save-the-dates, in person, no exceptions! You'd better all be there." Al was handing out the envelopes, "The wedding is in October, so you can't complain that it's too hot, or too cold, and I expect every single one of you to wear a suit!" And Al laughed, "Except for you, Riza, you can wear a dress if you want."

Roy frowned, jokingly, "So no bread, then."

Al just smiled, "I'm really hoping that all of you will come," and he paused, his throat tight, "it's the most important day of my life, and I want you guys to be there. I know that I don't remember much, but I know that Ed and I would never have gotten this far without you, _thank you_."

Riza was smiling, "Of course we'll be there, all of us." She glanced at Ed who hadn't moved, unsure of herself, maybe she shouldn't have said, _all of us_ , it sounded pretentious when she said the words aloud. She knew that Ed would do anything for Al, go anywhere that Al asked him to go, but Ed was lying to him, _blatantly_. Ed didn't even seem concerned that one of them might say something expose his lie, which begged the question, how many things had Ed lied about, and had he lied to _them_. But this was not the time nor the place for that, certainly not in front of Al, so Riza looked around the room, eyeing her comrades, "And we will be there, _early_."

Al was making his way towards the door, "I will see all of you in a couple of weeks!"

Al was first through the door, his brother following forthwith, but Ed stopped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Roy was holding him back, his grip digging into Ed's skin, "Edward, I need to talk to you." The words were severe, sharp, "Perhaps, you could spare a moment."

Ed felt as though his expression didn't change, but the words frightened him, _he was afraid_. He wanted to sound angry, to defend himself, but instead, he sounded weather-beaten, "What do you want."

Roy frowned, but the frown soon turned to fury, "What is _wrong_ with you!" Mustang was trying to whisper, as not to alert Alphonse, "Where have you _been_."

Ed had nothing to say, he was angry at Roy for touching him, for holding him back, and _demanding_ something from him. He tried to pull away, but Roy's grip only tightened, "Let go of me."

Roy noticed that Al was at the end of the corridor, his voice rising in volume, "You will not talk to me that way, _I am your superior officer_." Roy had dragged Edward back into the room, only to push him against the wall, violently, his hands gripping the collar of Ed's shirt, "Who do you think you are!" But his rage subsided upon seeing Ed's expression, or his expressionlessness, and he released him, "What happened to you, Ed?"

Ed couldn't push himself from the wall, so he remained, drained from Roy's outburst, "What do you want me to say?" Ed thought that it was pretty clear what was going on, he wasn't going to explain himself, not to Roy, _not to them_. Ed turned his head, though, upon hearing Alphonse calling his name, and walked away. Everyone in the room was watching, wondering what had just taken place, and why. There were just too many questions.

Ed caught up will Alphonse rather quickly, and upon exiting the building, Al immediately asked, "What did Roy want?"

Ed was feeling sick, "Nothing."

Al seemed concerned by Ed's answer, or maybe it was his lack of conviction, "Are you sure, Ed? You don't seem like you're OK." And Al stopped walking, causing Ed to stop, "Ed, I know that we haven't been close for a while now, not like we used to be, but I am here for you, whenever you need me." Al paused, his expression changing from concern to hurt, "But you won't let me help you, and I don't understand _why_."

Ed knew that this was going to be the last time that Alphonse came to visit. Al was tired of asking Edward to accept his help, knowing that Ed would deny him, _deliberately_. This was Edward's last chance to ask for help, knowing that if he were to do something stupid, he would be on his own. Al had been persistent, but Edward was just as stubborn, if not steadfast, as Al, but Edward was also angry. Sometimes, Ed wished that he hadn't given up his arm for Alphonse, that he had just let him die. He would have had to live with the guilt, but he already had guilt, and Ed wondered what the real difference would have been. Ed thought that if he had let Alphonse die, he could have done something with his life, _better himself_ , and that maybe, one day, the guilt would fade. But Ed had to live with his mistakes, watching his brother suffer, all the while trying to fix him, his guilt multiplying, _compounding_. Alphonse's happiness had always been Ed's priority, because if he fixed Al, he would be forgiven. But Edward had never really been forgiven, _just forgotten_.

And even though Ed was standing next to his brother, he felt far away, distant, miles apart. Al had forgotten him, Roy, his team, they had all forgotten him. They remembered the alchemist, _the Fullmetal Alchemist_ , but not him, not Ed. Maybe, they never even knew him, just his overshadowing title, because no one needed him anymore, _not Ed_. What could _Ed_ do? He couldn't eat, he couldn't sleep, walk, let alone _write_ his name. He had arthritis in his knee, his back was broken, the weight of his automail weighing him down. And his height, the butt of everyone's jokes, had been stunted by his brother's vacant body, because an arm wasn't equal to a soul, _everybody knew that_.

In an instant, Ed looked at Al, right in the eyes, "I think that you should leave."

Al's expression collapsed, his hurt had become carnal, contorting into agony. Al looked away, he was unable to match Ed's stare, not with tears in his eyes, and he furiously wiped them away, "I know that you don't mean that, Ed, you're just trying to hurt me, _to push me away_."

Ed was adamant, " _I_ want you to leave."

Al was staring at Ed with a mixture of confusion and pain. There were no words to describe how Alphonse was feeling, no words to describe the painful sensation, nor how the words cut through him. So Alphonse walked away, brushing past Ed and heading towards the train station, overwhelmed by Edward's stare, _heartbroken_.

Ed watched as Alphonse walked away, something twisting inside his stomach, _in his intestines_. The pain was sharp, like a knife, and he felt threateningly nauseous. Ed walked around the corner, finding an empty alleyway, and threw up.


	3. it was August

Syphon

Chapter three: it was August

It was true then, that the phrase, _things are never what they seem_ , was inherently true, if not absolute. When Edward opened the gate, he made a deal with the devil to see the _truth_ , sacrificing his leg as payment, and in a shrewd business move, traded his arm for Al's soul. But the second time that Edward opened the gate, he had the stone, _the philosopher's stone_ , to bargain with. In theory, Ed should have been able to trade the stone for Al's body, just flesh, no problem. But the demon at the gate, sly as he was, would accept nothing less than a sacrifice from Edward, along with the stone. Because Ed, _proud_ as he was, had challenged the gate not once, but twice, and that came at a price.

In the end, not only had the gate taken the stone, but the demon took something from Edward for admission, just to stand before him, _again_. But this time, the gate took something that no one could see, something internal, and _intangible_. There had been a flash of light, blue alchemic lightening, Alphonse appearing, whole. But after the light had faded, and after the exchange with the gate, Edward knew exactly what the gate had taken, _something inside him_. Ed could feel something missing, _physically_ , a sickness swelling up inside him, but there was something else, something that he couldn't _place_. But Edward had rushed to Alphonse nonetheless, pretending as though the transmutation had been a coincidence, like he had solved the greatest mystery of mankind _on accident_.

All the while, Edward's insides were burning, _on fire_. And only later, when Ed had time to think about what he had done, did he understand the price of his mistakes. He was hemorrhaging inside, bleeding through his nose, blood in his lungs. The gate had mangled his organs, twisting and tangling them, his intestines in knots. His innards had become misshapen, mismatched, filled to the brim with steel and metal shavings. Ed could feel them inside, tearing through his stomach, ripping through his _skin_. But the gate had taken something else, something unseen, a part of his _soul_. The gate had taken just enough for Ed to live, enough to make him suffer, because death was too permanent of a punishment. The price was equivalent exchange, but there was nothing equivalent about what Edward had given, or received in return.

Ed had considered seeking help, he was in so much pain, but he knew the consequences. Because anyone who might be able to help him, _maybe_ , would probably be an alchemist, and they would _know_ what he had done. Everyone knew that Ed had tried to bring back his mother, but it wouldn't be long before they figured out that he had brought back his brother. They would sentence Edward to hang until death, but they wouldn't hang him, they would imprison him, deeming the punishment more _humane_. Ed wasn't a monster, he was _good_ , misled, _but good_. He did all of those horrible things in the name of love, for his mother, for his brother, because he was _brokenhearted_. But that wasn't true, Edward had done those things out of fear, _for himself_ , for his own selfish reasons. And maybe, on the stand, when he was given the chance to defend himself, he would speak the truth. Because if he claimed to have done all of those things in the name of science, they would hang him, realizing that he was _heartless_.

It had been a couple of weeks since Al had come to visit and Ed had let the situation go, knowing that the guilt that he felt was preexisting. It was the same guilt that had followed him throughout his entire life, and in a single moment, was trying to gain some kind of control. But Ed wasn't going to let his guilt consume him, nor was he going to let his brother control him, _not anymore_. He assumed that Alphonse would blame Edward's poor state of mind, as though he were deranged, and more so, _damaged_. Edward knew what Alphonse thought of him, that he was broken, that he could be fixed, just like Ed had fixed him. But Edward was beyond fixing, there wasn't a sacrifice in the world that could repair his insides, or bring back his arm, his leg, _his life_. The time that he had spent searching for the stone was more valuable than anything that he had ever sacrificed, and he had wasted it, every single second, just for _this_.

After Al had left, Edward had returned to work, reluctantly, a new crime scene waiting for him. Ed had arrived at the scene with his usual complete lack of surprise, because someone else was dead, _surprise_. Edward hadn't really returned to work on his own accord, he had received a phone call demanding his presence. Someone might fire him, but _they_ _needed_ him. In Ed's first life, he never would have thought that he would have made a good detective, but without alchemy, _his identity_ , he found that investigation was similar to science. And Ed could deal with that, _just enough_. But it wouldn't have mattered if Edward had given up his alchemy, because after the stone had been found, a ban had been put on alchemy. Specifically, human transmutation, which had been illegal before, but was now considered _treason_. But that was because of what happened inside the military, the artificial humans, and the fact that no one knew about it. Now there were new higher-ups, they were stricter, less lenient of mistakes, trying those of notable crimes, punishing them.

Edward kept to himself, trying his best to remain invisible. He didn't want anyone to look into the things that he had done, let alone investigate him. Ed had made sure not to leave a trail of his mishaps, but Edward knew that there was bound to be something that he had missed, and he had, _Mustang_ knew what he had done. Mustang was the one mess that Ed hadn't been able to clean up, how could he, there had been countless witnesses at Al's resurrection. Because if Edward were to try to kill Roy, even now, Ed knew that he would be a suspect, _who else had motive but the boy who brought his brother back to life_. So Ed left it alone, wondering if Roy would do anything. Maybe, Roy would let it go, thinking that Edward was only human. But Mustang was a good man, and maybe, he was building a case against Edward, to take him down, to make Ed pay for his crimes against humanity. Because when Edward had seen Roy, his rage, Ed thought that Roy was going to burn him to death, then, and there, and maybe, Ed deserved that. But that was only speculation, Roy was too righteous of man, preferring to let someone else hang him instead.

So Ed, already exhausted by his internal monologue, arrived at the crime scene late. Edward was aware that none of his colleagues really liked him, knowing that they would be angry, only from the standpoint that on a daily basis, they had to _tolerate_ him. Today, however, Edward's colleagues seemed distressed, one man greeting Ed with a desperate, "You have to do something about the body, I can't look at her anymore." Ed was surprised by this, no one was ever happy to see him, but everyone seemed relieved when he walked over. Ed had already imagined how horrible the scene would be, but upon seeing the victim, a young girl, Ed didn't feel his usual fear of the situation, but sadness. Because the girl, _her leg was missing_.

At first, Edward tried not to wrench, there was something profanely personal about the girl's absent leg, and Ed knew all too well the feeling, _like you were missing something_. Ed knew what it was like to lose limbs, how _painful_ that it was, how painful that it was to be alone, to lose everything and still have to _walk away_. But this wasn't about Ed, it was about a child, abandoned in an alleyway. She was not hidden from sight, she was meant to be a spectacle. The girl was naked, raped, the evidence clear enough, her skin bruised black. She had been mutilated, cut, _broken_ , her wounds unprecise, as though the knife was dull, shredding instead of severing. Her mouth was open, screaming, her teeth rotten, and her skin sallow.

Edward was interrupted, though, by his partner, "What are you thinking?"

Ed shrugged, the intention was to seem indifferent, to redirect the question away from himself, to make it feel more indirect. Something inside Edward was telling him that something was wrong, not just the injustice against the girl, but something else, something that he couldn't explain. He would trust his instinct, but his instinct was telling him to run, _just leave her, you can't help her, you don't want this to happen to you, do you? Not again._ But Edward remained, still, staring at the body, suddenly empty inside.

Ed could feel his partner looking at him, "We don't have a name, Jane Doe, we think about six years old, homicide, _obviously_. No witnesses, at least, not yet." His partner, Adam, paused, the question inquisitive, but intentional, "Horrible, _isn't it?_ "

Edward frowned, knowing that Adam was just trying to get under his skin. Ed wasn't sure if anyone knew what he did behind closed doors, if they knew that he was weak, that he was _afraid_. Ed tried to make himself seem hard on the outside, but he was a mess on the inside, falling apart at the seams. But Adam let it go, looking away. Ed sighed, "Everything about this is premeditated, just look at her teeth, she must have been abducted a while ago."

"Yeah? What about her leg, though?"

Ed grimaced, "Maybe, he cut off her leg so she couldn't get away."

Adam laughed, "I guess legs don't just fall off on their own, _you know_."

Due to Edward's time in the military, and his own stupidity, everyone knew that Ed was a double amputee. _The gate made his limbs sick, he had no choice but to cut them off_. And Edward frowned, "Fuck _you_ , Adam."

And Adam laughed again, "Jesus Christ, Ed. I'm just messing with you."

It would be an understatement if Ed said that he didn't like Adam, and that would be putting it _nicely_. Adam was around the same age as Ed, thirtyish, give or take, but they both had very different ways of dealing with the work, and very different ways of doing their jobs. There was an understated respect, though, between them, their results speaking for themselves. This, _unfortunately_ , meant that they made a good team, which was why they were partners, and remained so, despite their abundant _hatred_ for one another.

Adam spoke again, "Who do you think did this?"

Ed was looking at the girl, staring into her eyes, "A man, some asshole, _I'm sure_." And Edward paused, taking a breath, "I don't think that he found what he wanted, though. He wouldn't have killed her, otherwise."

"What do you think that he wanted, seems like he was looking pretty hard for it, _whatever it was_." Adam had taken a knee, poking at the girl's skin with his pen, "He started peeling back her skin, that takes precision, but everything else seems so sloppy." Adam was sifting through the girl's hair, "There's something in her hair, like a sediment of some kind. Sand, maybe? And, salt?"

Ed had taken a small notepad from his pocket and was writing down notes, a mixture of his thoughts and Adam's observations, "Sand and salt, like _beach_ sand and salt?" There wasn't a beach within miles of Central. But Edward's train of thought shifted, suddenly, and he stopped writing. The answer seemed clear, if only for a split second, but faded just as quickly as it had appeared, Edward unable to grasp onto it. Edward knew the answer, and perhaps, because he felt as though he could not accept it, pushed it away. So Edward, in denial, offered another obvious detection, "She smells like bleach."

Adam was looking at the girl's expression, wincing at the sight, "This is so fucked up."

Edward had seen horrible things, _he_ had done horrible things, but Ed had never hurt a child. Violence towards children was an entire category in itself, marked under _unforgivable acts_. But things like this happened all the time, several of their cases every week involved children, most were accidents, others abuse, some caused by those with mental illnesses, anything and everything in between. But not like _this_. Because whoever had killed the girl, had done so in satisfaction, _for himself_. It was obvious, if not clear, that the murderer had _needs_ , and that the girl had provided him with some sort of relief. But that had only lasted for so long, until the girl could no longer satiate him. So he killed her, _dead_. Ed wondered if the girl had been enough, did he need _more_ , or did he just want a taste of something that he couldn't have.

For a moment Ed felt sick, feeling as though he had just compared himself with the killer, because he was always trying to take things that couldn't be touched, _immaterial_ things. But they were different, Edward would never do something like this, this was _wrong_. And Ed looked away, nauseous, afraid that if he were to continue thinking about why this immoral act had occurred, that he might find something else to hate about himself. Edward stepped away, turning away from the girl, realizing for the hundredth time that he wasn't a good man, unhappy again, _as usual_.

Adam stood, "We can get a better look at her tomorrow, after the autopsy." And Adam frowned, looking at Ed, "We're going to catch this motherfucker, right?"

Ed met Adam's stare, still feeling as though something wasn't right, but confirming Adam's ambition regardless, "Consider it _done_."

Adam seemed satisfied by Ed's answer, and walked away, Ed following closely behind. They headed back towards Central as the girl was being placed into a body bag.


	4. it was September

Syphon

Chapter four: it was September

If one could equate life to a flame, Edward would have the lifespan of a match, and even that was being _generous_. Somewhere along the line, Edward had lost his purpose, he had done what he had set out to do, leaving him in limbo. Ed had brought Alphonse back, but Alphonse didn't make him happy, _nothing_ made him happy. And for a long time now, Edward believed that he couldn't feel happy, because the gate had taken his happiness as payment. It was just another consequence that he had to live with, because _consequences_ are everlasting.

As a result of this, Edward had started drinking, _too much_. Ed would go home and drink, drowning out his fears, trying to silence his shame. But his shame wouldn't let go, it was trying to strangle him, gripping his throat from the inside out. Edward never thought that he would become an alcoholic. It seemed underwhelming compared to the things that he had _done_ and the things that he had _seen_. But if he was drunk, things didn't seem so bad, his arm didn't hurt, his leg didn't hurt, he couldn't feel _things_. At times, being unfeeling was better than feeling, _feeling_ was exhausting, feeling _hurt_. His alcoholism was born of his shame, but Edward's alcoholism wasn't quite as bad as his addiction to painkillers, which was born of his pain.

Edward had spent so much of his life in pain that it would seem almost _ridiculous_ if he wasn't addicted to _something_. Ed was eighteen when he brought Alphonse back, he was still young, but his body was already beginning to deteriorate, decay, even. It was partially due to his automail, it was heavy, the weight damaging his nerves, the pain unsympathetic, severe enough to make his nauseous. At some point Edward couldn't take it anymore, he had hit the threshold, but he had to go on, _he had to_. So when no one was looking, Ed would go out into the city, buying whatever he could find, just so that he could _breathe_. Because there was something ameliorating about feeling better, it was euphoric without the high. But Edward was too far gone to feel high, now he just felt a semblance of normality, and maybe, normal was _too_ strong of a word. Living had become tolerable, _but at what cost_. Ed took pills to sleep, pills to stop the shakes, and not only did he take pills, he took them while he was drinking, because, _why not_. Perhaps, he would stop breathing in his sleep, _choking on his own tongue_ , and maybe, he was OK with that.

That said, the evening following the discovery of the young girl, Jane Doe, Edward had been unable to cope. When Ed had awoken the next day, _when_ and _day_ being the fundamental words, he couldn't remember what he had done, nor how he had gotten home. Ed always assumed that he had been drinking, that was a given, and when he couldn't remember the day of the week upon waking, he also assumed that he had taken _something_. But it wasn't really the question of what he had taken, but how much, and when would it be _too_ much. Even though Edward couldn't remember how he had gotten home, he had only made it to the couch, where he was vomiting onto the floor. However, this wasn't unusual, Edward cleaning up his own vomit, it was just another reminder his shame and how he felt _ashamed_ of being _ashamed_.

But Edward had gotten up, _eventually_ , managing to get dressed. Ed had become lackluster, he didn't dress with the flair that he used to, no leather, not _red_. Edward wasn't even sure why he had dressed in such a way in the past, but he had been young, stupid, drawing unwanted attention to himself. But now, Ed wore cotton, breathable fabrics, long sleeves, slacks, shoes, a sweater, age appropriate. In the past, the leather had made his automail sweat, contributing to his chronic infections, like cellulitis, and _gangrene_. Edward was a detective, not a soldier, there was a dress code, but no uniform. Ed chose simplicity, which was really unkemptness, wearing clothing more days than he should, emphasizing his lack of hygiene. The only thing that Edward really took care of was his hair, his one, and _only_ , remaining glory. His hair was too long, but he could never bring himself to cut it. He would still braid his hair, allowing it to rest over his shoulder, making it more manageable. His hair was the last of his pride, and he couldn't let it go, _that_ would kill him.

As a child, Edward had never thought about what it would take to feed his addiction, how much that it would _cost_. Ed spent most of his money on liquor, alcohol was expensive, and so were his meds. Ed wasn't poor, _he made money_ , but that would only last for so long, everyone was expendable. But Ed didn't spend money on himself with the intention of _taking care of himself_ , and even though there was money left over month to month, Edward didn't know what to do with it. At first, Ed had sent the money to Alphonse, for food, housing, so that he could heal. Alphonse had started saving the cash with the purpose of opening a bakery, which he did, only a few years after he moved back to Resembool. Alphonse had refused to take Ed's money soon after, his business was a success, and Al didn't need Ed to take care of him. _You don't have to worry about me anymore, take care of yourself_. But that had been years ago.

It was early afternoon before Edward arrived at headquarters, _hungover_. The autopsy of the young girl had taken place that morning. The coroner had been able to match dental records, even with her extensive tooth decay, and had called Adam shortly after. Adam had talked to the coroner, taken some notes, and left with a file labeled _Lily_. Edward met Adam at the entrance of the building, knowing what they were going to do next. It was never long after the identification of a body that they, meaning Edward and Adam, had to find next of kin, or in this case, Lily's _parents_ , to inform them of their passing. Ed didn't like to deliver the bad news, but Adam could never bring himself to speak, so Edward handled the talking, which made him uncomfortable, _to say the least_. All Edward had to do was speak, which was relatively easy, the words rolling off his tongue, sounding rehearsed as the words were always the same. But what made him uncomfortable, though, was _how_ he said the words, how they sounded apathetic, _empty_ , like he didn't _care_. Edward wanted to care, but he _couldn't_. Ed had been disillusioned by death, _deadened_ by it, because Edward knew that everybody was going to die, knowing that it was only a matter of time.

Adam had greeted Edward by handing him a picture of Lily, her chest cracked open, cavernous, like she was having open heart surgery. Ed just stared at the picture, "What the fuck, Adam."

Ed forcefully handed the picture back to Adam, who smirked, "You're not going to believe this, Ed, the guy ripped out her goddamn heart, her organs, _everything_." Adam was waving his hands in the air, "Who the _fuck_ does that? I mean, what is he going to do with them?" And Adam turned on his heel, frowning at Ed, "And by the way, _you're_ late, just like you were late _yesterday_."

Ed crossed his arms over his chest, "And the day before that, and the day before that, _I get it_ , Adam."

Adam laughed at Ed's imitation of him. Edward knew Adam's inaugural speech by heart, because Adam, if not persistent, and or _relentless_ , had begun to sound like a broken record. Adam squinted his eyes, pointing his finger at Ed, " _You_ made me go down to the creepy dead room by myself, you _asshole_. You know I don't like it down there, not like _you_ do. I see the way that you look at those dead bodies, _Ed_."

Ed raised his brow, "I don't know what's _wrong_ with you, but I bet it's hard to pronounce."

Adam opened his mouth in mock surprise, "How _could_ you, I would _never_ ," and Adam settled on an apparent, if not painfully obvious observation, as an insult, "yeah well, you look like _shit_."

Ed almost laughed, "I'll take that as a complement, last week you told me that I looked like a human dumpster fire."

Adam was only amused for another minute or so, until he spoke again, "Are you ready to get this over with?"

Lily's family lived in Central. They lived in an apartment complex built for low income families, their provisions paid for by the government. The building was filled with homeless men and women huddling in the lobby, while children ran rampant through the hallways. The building was dilapidated, there was water damage, moisture in the drywall, and _mold_. The structure was waning, the brick pulling away from the studs, crumbling. The floorboards were rotten, bowing beneath a single footstep, worn to the subfloor.

Edward was the first to walk through the doorway, noting the _lack_ of a door, Adam following behind. Ed was conscious of the fact that he was being watched because everyone in the lobby was looking at him. _Maybe_ , it was because they were out of place, or _maybe_ , it was because his hand was made of metal, or _maybe_ , it was because he had a gun. Adam seemed uneasy, and stood behind Ed, perhaps, thinking that Edward was better equipped to handle the situation. Technically, Edward was _overqualified_ in this situation, but he had gone cold in his chest, fear creeping its way into his throat.

Edward managed to speak, though, with conviction, as if he were in control, "We are looking for the Wilson family, can any of you tell us where we can find them." Ed was met with silence, but continued speaking, _with spite_ , "If you tell us where to find the Wilson's, we won't feel the need to arrest all of you. For those of you who don't know, obstruction of justice is a crime, help us, or go to jail, it's _your choice_."

Somewhere among the homeless, a hand raised, pointing down one of the hallways, "Last door on right."

Edward turned to Adam, ushering him to follow. When they arrived at the door, Adam knocked, unnerved by the flickering lights in the hallway. The door was answered by a young boy, and Adam leaned over to meet his eyes, "Are your mom and dad home?" The boy shook his head yes, and Adam smiled, "Can we talk to them, it's very important."

The boy left the door ajar, and ran into the apartment. Edward could already see the guilt in Adam's eyes, his shoulders beginning to sag, his mischievousness replaced by misery. But Edward looked away when a woman opened the door, "How can I help you?"

Knowing that Adam would not speak, Edward stepped forward, taking out his badge, "My name is Detective Edward Elric, and this is my partner, Detective Adam Bennett. And on behalf of the Central Military Police, we are here to inform you that we found your daughter, Lily Wilson."

But before Edward could continue, the woman lit up, she was happy for a moment, _relieved_ , "You found Lily!" But as soon as the woman had spoken the words, in _happiness_ , she fell to her knees, overwhelmed with sudden _sadness_ , "She's dead. My baby is _dead_ , isn't she?"

Edward continued, "Your daughter has been murdered, Mrs. Wilson. Detective Bennett and I are heading the investigation, we were wondering if we could ask you a few questions."

The woman was staring at Edward in horror, "What? What about my baby, who _killed_ my baby."

Edward was trying to seem sympathetic, "We are working on finding whoever did this, Mrs. Wilson, but these things take time, _we just have a few questions_."

The woman stood, grabbing Edward at the shoulders, "I want to see my _baby_." But the woman jerked her hands away, suddenly, _as though she had burned them_ , upon touching Edward's automail, having not noticed his hand, _how it was metal_.

Ed, once again, was trying to keep the situation from escalating, "You will have to go to the Central City Coroner's Office to identify her body. But you will be unable to make burial arrangements until such a time as her body is not involved in an active investigation."

The door was abruptly slammed in Ed's face.

Edward threw his head back, releasing an exasperated, _fuck me_.

And Adam, feeling as though he needed to salt the wound, spoke, "I feel as though you could have handled that better. She fucking _hates_ you."

Edward scowled at Adam, walking away. Adam followed Ed out of the building, catching Edward's arm, _his flesh arm_ , causing Ed to stop. Edward was upset, Adam could see that, and he let go of Ed's arm. Adam sighed, "She just needs some time to process the information, you know, it's hard to just walk up to somebody and tell them that their daughter is dead. They think that we are trying to hurt them, _like we had something to do with it_ , but we're just trying to help. She doesn't hate you, Ed, she hates the guy who killed her daughter."

Ed felt himself smile, it was small, but significant, "Who the fuck are you and what did you do with Adam?"

Adam looked away, "If you're going to make fun of me for being nice, then consider this the last time, Ed, _never again_."

And Adam stormed off, half embarrassed, half ecstatic, that he had made Edward smile. Adam liked Ed, he thought of Edward as his friend, even if Ed didn't return the sentiment. Adam knew who Edward was even before they were partners, knowing that Ed was both dangerous and delicate, all at once. He had a great respect for Ed, because Edward was incredibly smart, intelligent, and hardworking, _despite_ his shortcomings. Adam only annoyed Ed because he cared, knowing that one day Edward might not show up, because he would be _dead_.

Edward was haunted by things that Adam couldn't even begin to imagine, he could see it in Ed's eyes, his sadness, his _grief_. Adam knew about the alcohol, he could smell it, and he knew about the drugs, because when Ed got fucked up, he got _fucked_ up. Ed would spend half the day coming down, but in the end, Edward would just take something else when his hands started to shake. Adam had seem Edward pop pills, Ed did it right in front of him, but Adam never said anything, it wasn't his place. The most that he could do, the only thing that he could do, was wait for Ed every morning, hoping that it was enough, _knowing that it wasn't enough_.

Adam stopped walking and turned around, waiting for Edward to catch up. Ed was walking behind Adam, his pace slow, enjoying his sudden and small amount of joy, _smiling_.


	5. it was still September

Syphon

Chapter five: it was still September

It was late afternoon, Edward was sitting at his desk, opposite Adam, filling out paperwork. After talking with Mrs. Wilson, both Edward and Adam had gone down to see the coroner _and Lily_. They were still trying to pinpoint what exactly had happened to the girl, unknowing of _why_ this had happened, and knowing all at once, this could have been random, or done with reason. Everything about Lily confused them. Lily had been preserved, but _poisoned_. Her organs were missing, taken, perhaps, for religious purposes, or taken for personal reasons. But why had the killer raped her, it seemed incongruent to everything else that had been done, _purposeless_ , even. There was no real evidence, the body had been bleached, and because she was dead, her skin had soaked the chemical in like a sponge. The effect was preservation, even though she was decomposing, her pores hollow, her eyes were yellow, even her skin was yellow, _perspiring_. It looked as though she was weeping, with great sorrow, but it was just bleach, _because she was dead_.

Edward had stayed in the cold room long after Adam had decided to leave, staring at the body, trying to grasp onto something. But Ed realized, only after his fingers had gone numb, that he didn't know what to do. Their job was simple, follow the clues and find the killer. But there were no clues, just the body of a little girl, _or part of one_. And once again, Edward felt sick, feeling as though he was losing control, not just of the situation, but of _himself_. Ed had taken a concoction of pills that morning, just to take the edge off, but he was suddenly conscious of an ache in his shoulder. He felt heavy, his chest felt heavy, his feet felt heavy. And before Edward could stand no longer, he left the cold room, and headed back upstairs to his office.

The ache in Edward's shoulder soon turned into a sharp pain, like needles, and he grimaced, feeling overwhelmed. Ed felt tired, the sickness gnashing inside his stomach, the nausea tightening around his throat. He was clenching his teeth, grinding them, waiting for the elevator. And when the elevator door opened, Edward stepped inside, taking a shallow breath, sweating. The ride from the basement to the second floor seemed infinite, and even before the door was fully opened, Edward was through the threshold, making his way to the bathroom. He was barely through the stall door before he began to wrench, violently falling to his knees, heaving without breathing. The pain from his shoulder had shifted to his stomach, razor-sharp, the agony tearing through him. And only until the sickness had passed, could Ed breathe, remaining, on his knees, shaking, every breath shuttering trough his lips.

Ed was used to the taste of copper, but his blood was sour, always embittering. He thought that he would have been used to the taste, but he was never prepared, not for the moldy aftertaste, and not for the stench. The smell of his sickness was equal to the sight of it, sordid, _spoiled_. Just the smell would make Edward wrench again, and again, even if there was nothing left to retch. Because of the gate and what the gate had done to his organs, Edward was bleeding to death, _internally_. The color of his vomit was red, burgundy, like resveratrol, _like wine_. His insides were bleeding into his stomach, but the blood was old, having become rotten, causing the sickness to swell. Ed often thought about cutting himself open, neck to navel, and letting the sickness run out in a tangled mess, _grotesque_ , with the sole intention of satiation. And maybe, taking out his insides wouldn't be enough, and maybe, he wouldn't die, and maybe, he would only prolong his suffering. So Edward put the thought out of his mind, for a time, knowing that it would return, _revenant_. Ed tried not to listen to the voice in his head, the one that told him to do horrible things, the _more_ horrific _the better_. His thoughts had started with a bullet, but now, years later, a bullet just wasn't enough, _not anymore_.

For twenty minutes, Edward sat in the bathroom stall, finding that he lacked the physical strength to get up. Edward wanted to leave, and for a moment, he considered calling Adam. Adam could help him, but Edward didn't want Adam to see him like that, brittle, and _bleeding_ from his mouth. Ed had lived his life according to his reputation, he was strong, _he was made of metal_ , but Edward was only one of those things. Edward was weak, weak minded, physically weak, weak in his bones. It was times like these when Ed, ashamed, _afraid_ , would begin to crave something, anything, to smother out the sickness, in his head, and in his heart. But nothing really smothered the feeling, not permanently, and Edward would always find himself right back where he started, a place called _desperation_. Ed knew that he had to get up, he had to do his job, knowing that, _at least_ , he had to _try_. So Edward, feeling as though his legs wouldn't support him, stood, and walked to the sink.

Edward knew what he looked like, he didn't need a mirror to remind him, not about the broken blood vessels in his eyes or the hollows of his cheeks. Most notably, Edward looked tired, like he hadn't slept in years. That wasn't untrue, though, he hadn't slept, not since he left home, not since he burned it to the _ground_. Edward forced himself to sleep, but he wasn't really sleeping, he was in twilight, not awake, but not asleep. He took drugs, he would drink, waiting for the blackout, but the blackout never came. Edward thought that he could heal himself, but the meds only brought him pain, a different kind of pain, but pain nonetheless. And Edward looked into the mirror, at himself, at the man that he had become. _That_ man had blood in his teeth, and _that_ man was grimacing, because that was a man paying for his sins, _for his_ _pride_. _That_ was not a good man, _that_ was a bad man, and Edward knew that.

By the time that Edward had returned to his desk, Adam had printed out new paperwork and had placed a stack on Edward's desk. Edward sat down, staring at the paper, knowing that he had to work, thinking that it might _actually_ kill him. But, more so, Edward was thinking about his hand, particularly his left hand. Edward was right handed, but he had to write with his left hand, _hating_ that he had to write with his left hand. It was his mistake, just another consequence of his _good_ intentions.

Adam was staring at Edward from across the table, "Everything OK, Ed?" Adam had begun to worry, Edward had been gone for a while, and upon returning, looking as though he was going to be sick. Ed's eyes were red, bruised, framed by an unsettling darkness beneath. But Edward just ignored Adam, and continued writing, "Are you going to your brother's wedding, isn't that in a couple of weeks?"

Edward looked up at Adam. For a moment, Edward did not speak, as though he didn't know what to say. But Ed spoke, nonetheless, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper, "How do you know about that?"

Adam tried to smile, _to make a joke_ , but Edward's demeanor made him feel ill, "There was an invitation sitting on your desk, for like, six months, Ed. It said, _you are cordially invited_ , on the front, you know, stuff that invitations say."

Edward looked away, considering whether or not to discuss the matter with Adam, knowing that Adam would press the issue, regardless. Edward stopped writing, placed his pen on the desk, and sighed, "I'm not going."

Adam looked confused, stating what he felt was obvious, "Why not, he's your brother."

"I told him to leave."

Adam didn't know how to respond, his brain was telling him to reach over and knock some sense into Ed, but Adam refrained, preferring to vocally demonstrate his bewilderment, "You did _what?_ "

Edward was looking at Adam now, unwavering, "I told him to leave, as in, _leave me alone_."

Adam jumped to his feet, towering over Ed, who had remained sitting, "You told your brother, that sweet, sweet, boy, to _fuck off_." Adam threw his hands up in the air in frustration, " _Jesus_ , Ed, what is wrong with you?"

Edward frowned, "I didn't ask for your opinion, _Adam_ , besides, it's none of your business."

Adam would have strangled Edward if it wasn't for the table between them, " _Ed_ , you need to go to your brother's wedding, and you need to _apologize_. That kid loves you, and you're trying to throw that away."

There was a sudden change in Edward's expression, a sadness, as Ed took a breath, "Alphonse doesn't want me there," and Edward looked away, " _nobody_ wants me there."

Adam sat back down. He was stunned, having never experienced such a profane sadness from Ed, something so deeply personal, that Edward didn't even have the heart to hide how much it hurt. And Adam, afraid of what he saw in Ed, spoke with reassurance, unsure of _how_ he should respond, "It's going to be Ok, Ed."

Ed looked as though he was on the verge of tears, but he shut his eyes, running his hands down his face, swallowing the lump in his throat, " _Jesus Christ_."

Adam was deeply concerned, Edward had never been that upset about anything, even at the sight of death, or at least, Ed had never _shown_ it. Adam felt as though Edward was going to crumble, then and there, and Adam was about to say something, anything, but was interrupted by the phone. Adam felt torn, he needed to say _something_ , but he grimaced, unable to speak. So Adam, angry with himself, reached for the phone, picked up the receiver and stated, "This is Detective Bennett." Adam was silent for a moment, listening intently to whomever was on the other line, frowning, "Alright, we'll be right there." Edward was looking at Adam inquiringly, and Adam, suddenly upset, spoke, "They found another body."

Edward felt numb for a moment. Ed didn't want to go, he didn't want to see another dead child, not today, not _ever_. There was an instinct in him, _run_ , it said, but Edward sat perfectly still, feeling defeated. He knew that this was going to happen, knowing that things never turn out in the end, it was the snowball effect, _Murphy's Law_. But that was the job, relying on society to thwart itself, knowing that if something could go wrong, it _would_. There would always be bad people, bad men, war, and murder. That was the basis of society, if there wasn't any evil, there wouldn't be any good. And Edward, having seen the worst of humanity, thought that the world lacked goodness because he had never _seen_ it. If Ed were to ask, anyone would tell him that there was goodness in the world, _somewhere_. But Edward, cynical as he was, believed not in equivalence, but in the human condition, knowing that goodness was not true. _That_ , if anything, he knew for sure.

Edward was disrupted by Adam, who, at first glance, didn't seem particularly happy. Adam had thrown himself against the back of his chair, sighing, or for lack of a better word, _screaming_ , in aggravation. Adam took a deep breath, released it, and tried to calm himself. His first words were a string of obscenities, something about _fuck this_ and _fuck that_ , finding then, enough composure to speak actual words, "When will it _end?_ "

The question was easy enough to answer, Edward knew that, but instead of saying _never_ , Ed responded with a transparent, "When we catch him."

Adam seemed dissatisfied by Edward's answer, "You know that's not what I meant."

Ed sighed, "What do you want me to say, Adam?"

Adam crossed his arms over his chest, infuriated, not at Ed, but at the situation, "I want you to tell me the truth."

Ed frowned, something terrible in his voice, something _cold_ , "You don't want to know the truth."

Adam wasn't stupid, the tone of Edward's voice was predatory, and Adam let it go, leaving the question unanswered. Adam knew better than to be angry, especially with Ed, never really knowing what Edward would do. Adam thought that Edward would do nothing, because that seemed to be Ed's most common reaction to things, _nothing_. But there were times when Edward had scared Adam, something unhinging from Edward's normal behavior, something born of _horror_. It seemed automatic, the change in Edward, and it was rare to see, because Edward was afraid of something, something that he couldn't see. And at times, when Adam felt as though Edward was the only sane person in Central, did Adam wonder if _he_ should be afraid. And more importantly, what should he be afraid _of?_

But Adam pushed his thoughts aside, "We have to get going, everybody's waiting for us."

Ed had reverted to his usual nothingness, and agreed, about to speak, when he suddenly closed his mouth. Ed got up from his chair and walked away, mumbling an, _I'll meet you outside_. Adam watched Edward walk away, concerned, still angry, and stood. Adam was heading to the elevator when he noticed Edward in the hallway, sitting with his back against the wall, his head in his hands. Adam had half a mind to go over to Ed, to make sure that he was OK, but Adam stepped into the elevator when the doors opened, knowing that Edward would follow, _when he was ready_. Adam couldn't push Ed, because Edward was like an animal, more afraid of you then you are of him, teetering between derange and self-destruction. He couldn't upset the balance, he couldn't live with the guilt of pushing Edward over the edge.

So Adam rode the elevator down to the first floor, conflicted by his decisions, knowing that he could do better, that he _should_ do better. But Adam had demons of his own, he couldn't shoulder the things that kept Edward up at night, Adam had a family, a wife, a daughter, and he had to be there for them. He had to make the world better for them, make it _safe_. Adam wasn't sure why Ed had taken the job, Edward wasn't trying to _change_ things. Ed had no motivation to do anything, to do paperwork, to solve a crime, let alone _arrest_ someone. Edward cared, but Edward didn't care. It was infuriating how Ed came across, abrasive, apathetic, but Adam knew that Edward was just trying to protect himself. And maybe, Edward had had enough. And maybe, the job was just another way of reminding himself that the world was broken, just enough for him to remember, but not enough to hurt him.

There was a _ding_ , and Adam looked to the elevator to see Edward stepping through. There was a feeling that Adam had acquired, the one that told him if Ed had left and went home, regardless of what had to be done or where _they_ needed to be. Adam knew that Edward wouldn't flake, something about the case had gotten under his skin. Adam could tell by the way that Edward stared into Lily's eyes, with _sympathy_ , and understanding, because Edward knew what it was like to _lose_ something.

It was only a second before Edward was standing next to Adam. Adam looked at Ed, who looked tired, "Ready?" Edward nodded his head, turning towards the exit, Adam following behind, knowing that this was not the end.

Because that would be too easy.


	6. it was October

Syphon

Chapter six: it was October

Edward was a child prodigy. Ed had grown to expect praise, praise for his alchemy, praise for his intelligence, praise for math, science, music. But with his intelligence, there was ignorance. Edward had been cruel. He used his intelligence to _be_ cruel. It could have been his hatred for his father, how his father had touched him, or how he let that hatred eat away at him. There was a hole where the loathing had burned through his heart, making it hollow, _hard_ , even. But that was nothing compared to the rot that the loathing had left behind, like his heart was weeping, weak now, struggling to beat. That was, until the beat of his heart surged, blood rushing through his veins, beating, beating, beating. Edward found himself catching his breath, his heart skipping a beat, once, twice, too many times to count. He could hear his heart beat, he could _feel_ his heart beat, during the day and at night. His heart beat in his throat, smothering him, tightening with every breath. And if he were to succumb, always feeling as though he were on the edge, Edward was afraid that he might end things, _permanently_.

Edward had many conflicting feelings. He was unfeeling, and yet, feeling all at once. He would feel pain, acknowledge the pain, _fear_ the pain, all the while feeling dispassionate. Many of his feelings were derived from uncontrollable events, like what his father had done to him, his mother's death, his inability to cope, and his poor decision making. Ed had no control, not over his career, his body, or his _life_. Because Edward had never lived his life, at least, not for himself, every moment spent trying to fix Alphonse as Edward was trying to fix his own _mistakes_. Edward had given up everything, even normality, so that one day Alphonse could be whole again. Happy, even. Edward could control Al's happiness, unlike his own, which was ultimately taken from him. Edward had given his happiness away unwillingly, unknowing of the price. But that was just like Ed, _compulsion_ , never considering the consequences.

That was why Edward was drinking himself to death. Alcoholism was uncontrollable, but drinking was a form of control. Edward craved control, he had spent most of his life out of control, wondering when the world would come to a stop. And it had, the day he brought Alphonse back. The rotation of the earth had ceased, throwing Edward backwards, the world becoming motionless. From that moment on, Edward was in control, he was _free_. But Edward wasn't free, he was still beholden, to Alphonse, to the military, he wasn't _free_. Ed would have sold his soul to the military if he hadn't sold his soul to the devil, and even Alphonse, who was _kind_ , was collecting interest on a debt that Ed had since paid. Because there was no such thing as equivalent exchange, an eye for an eye, one and the same. Edward had learned that the hard way, that nothing was equal in itself, that a soul was unequal to another soul, and that the cost life was unequal to the cost death.

Edward had been taught that life was equal to death. Science had proven that theory, stating that death was the origin of new life, and in turn, life a commencement unto death. This, of course, had been proven wrong by the gate. The gate took whatever it wanted, because the gate was neither life nor death, just something in between, reaping the benefit of indetermination. Humans were afraid to die, Edward himself had been afraid of death, but knowing what he knew now, _that he would become_ _nothing_ , Ed was no longer afraid. His fear had been replaced by something morbid, something _melancholic_ , because Edward had seen the other side. The gate had shown Edward his mother, _Edward had given his leg for his mother_ , her hands reaching for him, smiling. At the time, Edward thought that he had seen the truth, but Ed had come to understand that the gate was only taunting him. Because Edward would _never_ see his mother again. Even if Edward died today and went to heaven, his mother would hate him, disown him, she would be _ashamed_ of him and the things that he had done. And Edward would feel nothing, just emptiness, because he had given up his right to be happy, because he had sold his happiness like it was worth _nothing_.

If things had turned out differently, _better_ , and Edward hadn't been a fool, he could have had something sweet. And in Edward's desperation, he was willing to give up the last of himself for nothingness, if not for the silence. Ed knew that being _nothing_ was better than being _something_ , because if he were to remain carnal on the other side, he would still be able to feel. But if he were nothing, he wouldn't have to think, to feel, or try to fix everything that he had done wrong, because he would have already paid the price. The price being his body, the rest of his soul, in return for _nothing_. And upon his death, standing before the gate one last time, Edward would not fight the demon, nor would he bargain for his soul. Edward would take the consequences, all of them, knowing that there would be nothing left of him. Because that was the price of sourness.

And at times, things seemed almost intentional, if not deliberate, according to Edward. There was always a reason behind death, even if there was no reason. Crimes of passion were considered wrongdoings of rage. Most perpetrators could never really pinpoint the reason why they had committed the crime, just that they were _angry_. Other crimes, such as the case of the dead children, was performed with an intent of committing a monstrosity. That was his purpose, the _reason_ , because he was lonely, because he was angry, because he was _sad_. There were so many reasons as to why a crime was committed, circumstances, emotions, and uncontrollable events, anything that _hurts_.

Edward knew the feeling, _whatever it takes_. Edward had left a trail of bodies in his wake, and that, if not anything, was proof of provocation. Edward had come to terms with what he had done, his resolve was like _steel_ , his actions justified in the name of righting a wrong. But Edward had been _wrong_ , knowing that he was no better than the man that he was chasing. And Edward had to stop himself, he couldn't do that to himself, he couldn't let his fear take hold, _not now_. Edward needed what restitution that he had left, _something to defend himself with_ , and Edward needed what was left of his self-deprecation, because he needed _something to fight with_. Because there was no greater weapon than _contempt_ , Edward knew that.

With that said, Edward was staring at the body of a young boy, abandoned in an alleyway, awkwardly spilling out of an overturned garbage can. The boy was naked, blue in color, _disemboweled_. His intestines were escaping, tethering a twisted mass, lying next to the boy, misplaced. His organs were intact, as in, still inside his chest, but his ribs were wrenched apart, displaying his contents. His fingers were black, broken, his fingernails yellow, sick and split down to the bone. And just as the girl was missing her leg, the boy was missing his leg, however, the opposite. The cut was clean, unlike before, the decomposition molding the meat white. His skin was covered in boils, clusters of pus, his hide peeling away from his tissue, _in terror_. And as horrible as the scene might have been, Edward couldn't help but consider the extenuating irony, the boy had lost his head, _literally_ , cut clean off.

Adam was in a permanent state of perplexity, his hand holding his head still in the air, mumbling _Jesus Christ_ over and over again. The days were still warm in October, and Adam wiped away the sweat from his forehead, sighing, "I know what you're going to say, Ed, just spare me."

Edward was standing next to Adam, his arms crossed, "We have to find his head."

Adam threw his hands in the air, "I said _spare_ me."

Ed was walking around the body, "You're being overdramatic."

Adam had followed Edward, looking over Ed's shoulder, " _I'm_ being overdramatic," and Adam gripped Ed's shoulder, his voice low, whispering, "this is a fucking mess, Ed. _Jesus_ , this is a mess." Adam was watching the other detectives, keeping his voice quiet, "They're going to eat us alive, we're _through_."

Edward glanced at the other detectives, they were standing together, watching from across the backstreet, "Calm down."

"Look at them, like _sharks,_ the bastards."

Edward had tuned Adam out, returning his attention to the boy. The body smelled like bleach, just like the girl, heavy with chemical excess. Ed gestured towards the boy's neck, just below the cut that killed him, "The cut is clean." And on further inspection, Edward noticed that the boy's skin was covered in a powdery residue, white cast, like salt, like _magnesium_. And Edward, remembering that it was strange how the girl had salt in her hair, and sand, had found a connection between them, strange as it was, knowing that it was _strange_ , and yet, _familiar_.

Adam recognized the look on Edward's face, "What?"

Edward was all but whispering, "This is wrong, this is _wrong_." Something was clawing at the back of Ed's throat, a certain anxiousness crawling beneath his skin, "This doesn't make any sense, _the cut is too clean_."

Adam was about to respond, but was interrupted by one of the other detectives. The man clapped Adam on the back, greeting him with a sinister salutation, "Adam, how are you? And how is the investigation going, not very well, _I see_." And the man continued, the words tense, "I can't help but notice that there's another dead body, a _child_ no less, I thought that you would have caught the bastard by now, considering your reputation."

Adam was uncomfortable, pulling away from the man's hand, though his grip relentless, "We're working on it."

The man seemed unsatisfied by Adam's reaction and turned his attention to Edward, " _Edward_ , how nice to see you. I didn't expect that you would come, considering your _reputation_." The man smiled, though more of a smirk, "Is the dream team is a lie, or are you not as smart as everyone thinks."

Edward felt himself grimace, "At least people _think_ that I'm smart, unlike you, who I assume everyone _knows_ to be painfully irrelevant."

The man frowned, "I'd watch your mouth, you little cunt, you're walking a thin line."

Edward would have replied with another insult, his English degenerating into four letter words, but Ed shut his mouth. Adam had moved to stand between them, Edward and the man, feeling as though the situation was getting out of hand.

When Edward refused to reply, the man turned back to Adam, "You have children, don't you? What if this was _your_ son, _your_ daughter. Do you know how bad this makes the military look? _Incompetent_ , to say the least." The man looked back at Edward, "I suggest that you do something about this, or you're going to have to explain to the Major General how _you're_ responsible for the death of a bunch of fucking children." And the man smiled, leaning as close to Edward as Adam would allow, being sure to emphasize every word, "I'm not sure if they'll cut your leash or _strangle_ you with it."

And upon hearing the words, Adam pushed the man away, standing in front of Edward like a shield, "Fuck off, _Dean_."

Even though Adam had pushed the man away, Dean was still smiling at Edward, _specifically_. Edward felt himself physically pull away, the sound of the man's voice was material, _violent._ It wasn't uncommon for members of the military to attack him, Edward was an easy target. Edward was infamous, he was the Fullmetal Alchemist, but to people like Dean, Ed was just a dog on a short leash. And Edward, unable to hold himself together, turned and walked away. Ed didn't go far, but he needed to get away from Dean. Edward never liked the way that Dean looked at him or the undeniable feeling that, if Dean had the chance, he would do something to Edward, like take _something_ that he didn't want to give. And for a moment, Edward was relieved that Adam had been present, to protect him, knowing that Adam would. Because Adam, if not annoying, was dependable, and that made Edward feel safe.

Edward released a breath, one that he had unconsciously been holding, finding comfort at the sound of Adam's voice. Ed couldn't understand what Adam was saying, he was far away, walking towards him, feeling ease nonetheless. Adam was around the corner then, standing next to Ed, scowling, "What a dick." And when Edward didn't respond, "You OK, Ed?"

Ed closed his eyes, "Adam?"

Adam raised his brow, inquisitive, "Yes, Ed?"

"Stop asking me that."

Adam scoffed, turning on his heel, "Who else is going to ask, Ed?"

Edward watched as Adam walked back over to the body. Edward wasn't sure what was going to happen, but he had an idea, a heart wrenching suspicion, as to what was going on. Edward knew that _things are never what they seem_ , knowing that something was horribly wrong with the situation. Edward had seen a cut as clean the decapitation of the boy's head, if not once, but twice, a long time ago. And at the very thought of human transmutation, Edward was physically ill, but he swallowed the vomit, breathing through the wave the nausea, forcing the feeling to fade away. And when the sickness had subsided, Edward walked back to the body, taking Adam's arm and pulling him away.

Adam let Edward lead him away, somewhat confused and concerned, "What is it?"

Edward was watching the other officers swarm around the body, their attention dedicated to the boy. Edward let out a sigh, "Epsom salts."

"What?"

Edward was still holding onto Adam's arm, his grip slacking, but remaining, "The white residue on the bodies, Epsom salts." Adam frowned as though he didn't understand. But Edward was adamant, his grip tightening, "You said that the girl had salt in her hair, right?"

"Yeah?"

Edward spoke matter-of-factly, "The residue is excess salt, MgSO4, magnesium sulfate."

Adam looked down at Edward's hand, _shaking_ , "Are you _sure_?"

Edward noted that his hand was shaking and released Adam's arm, stepping away, creating a space between them. For a moment, Edward could see his mother, coated in magnesium ash, phosphorus for eyes, carbon for skin, _bleeding_ but without blood. And Edward, feeling as though his train of thought was beginning to wander, was struggling to continue speaking, "I _know_ what it looks like." And Edward paused, feeling hungry, empty, like he was _starving_. But he left the feeling alone, letting the itch crawl underneath his skin, on his neck, through his fingertips. He felt his head shift to the side, an unconscious, if not involuntary tick, and Edward ran his hands down his face, shuttering.

Adam was watching Edward's expression. Something painful had surfaced, surging through his senses, Edward unable to control the contortion of his features. And when Edward seemed as though he had lost control of the conversation, Adam spoke, "Ed, _Edward_?"

Edward snapped out if his trance, dropping his hands to his sides. Ed cleared his throat in nervousness, his mouth dry, _scorching_ , his eyes never quite meeting Adam's stare, "Magnesium sulfate is a synthetic salt. The body won't readily absorb it, only what it needs, especially if the magnesium is liquid. The skin will reject what it doesn't need, leaving a white cast that's coarse to the touch, like _salt_."

Adam was in understanding, responding with reinforcement, "There's a place downtown in the warehouse district, they used to manufacture Epsom salts. Fuck, Ed! You're a goddamn _genius_."

Edward still wouldn't meet Adam's eyes, "I'm not sure if the salt it significant," and Edward trailed off, suddenly, unable to finish his contemplation, _defeated_ by it. Adam could hear it in Edward's voice, the _doubt_ , as though Edward could not believe in his own words, not with any conviction. There was something about the tone of Edward's voice, an underlying apprehension, or _agony_ , weighing down the words like lead. Because Adam knew that Edward feared the truth, the truth of all things, and that, _maybe_ , death wasn't about killing, but about something else entirely, _something much worse_.

Edward frowned then, however, his expression more of a grimace, "Let's get the fuck out of here." And Edward walked away, heading for the car. Ed didn't want to be right, he wanted to be wrong, so far from the truth that it was absurd, _outrageous_ , even. But somewhere inside in chest, in his heart, in his _bones_ , he knew that he was right. They had started the investigation looking for a man, knowing that he was _only_ a man, human, and imperfect, but that wasn't true. Because the man that they were looking for was a monster.


	7. it was still October

Syphon

Chapter seven: it was still October

The company was named after its founder, Mr. Sutherland, Sutherland Salts. The building was as old as time, aged by the salts, the wooden beams rotten from the moisture. Supplies had been abandoned, boxes, and vats, propane tanks, and paper. The building had been boarded up, but nature had found a way inside, rooting to the brick, creating a canopy of leaves inside. The flora had flourished, the salts a fertilizer, overtaking the first and second floors. The air was thick with moisture, like saltwater, sediment floating through the air, only seen through the light of the sun. There was a white cast on the machinery, on the walls, the floors, and windows. The salts were dry, room temperature, but there was condensation dripping down the sides of the vats and from the ceiling, as though it were _raining_.

The warehouse was quiet, except for the occasion _sigh_ from the machines, settling under immense pressure. And that was where Edward stood, Adam beside him, listening to the silence of the system. There was something eerie about the building, Adam having commented on his uncomfortableness upon entering, stating that the building and all of its contents were _fucking creepy_. And Edward, knowing that Adam was prone to overreact, was in agreement for once. The building was disturbingly distilled, sterile in its state of humidity, odorless, not even the leaves had a scent. And _still_. The atmosphere was still, _too_ still, stagnant, even. And that made Edward uneasy, something in his guts telling him to _run_ , but Edward wasn't listening, he wasn't _going_ to listen.

Edward felt stiff upon entering the building, like his arm and leg were already beginning to rust. There was so much moisture in the air, Ed could taste it. Edward spit the salts from his mouth, _grimacing_ , and spoke, "I'll look upstairs if you want to stay down here."

Adam frowned and crossed his arms in defiance, " _Really_? We're going to split up. That is possibly the worst idea that you have ever had, Ed."

Edward rolled his eyes, "Jesus, Adam. How long do want this to take?"

Adam was already walking away, speaking with exasperation, "Why, of course, I'll walk down the dark, creepy ass hallway, and _yes_ , I know that Satan is down there, but I'm _going_. Ed told me to go. I'll go wherever _Ed_ tells me to go. Thank _God_ I listen to you, _Ed_."

Whatever Adam said after that was inaudible, for he had disappeared underneath the canopy and Edward was already walking up the stairs. Every step produced a metallic _clink_ , disrupting the environment, the stillness shifting in agitation. Edward could see the rims of the vats, the salts white like mold atop the brim, solid, and yet, swarming with infestation. There was sediment across the floor, like sand, and Edward used his foot to move the wet leaves from the walkway. Underneath his very feet, ground into a powder, _eggshells_ , in the shape of a circle. The symbols were smudged, dislodged from the elements, but to Edward, the circle was unobstructed. It was a transmutation circle, a _human_ transmutation circle. Edward reached down and smeared the dust with his fingers, the chalk rough against his skin, remembering the feeling. Something that had once brought him joy had brought him nothing but pain, and Edward curled his fingers against his palm, retracting his hand. That was enough.

Across the room there were boxes and burlaps bags. The boxes were empty, but the bags were filled with remnants of herbs and minerals. There was salt, saltpeter, carbon, phosphorus, all of the ingredients that were required to make a human. The bags had been disturbed, and Edward, thinking that the scene was strange, could only wonder what they had been used for. The circle was in good condition, but there was no ash from a human transmutation, although, there was sand, and sand was a byproduct of transmutation. Someone had used the circle, but it was _clean_. Edward frowned then, dread filling his chest, an unwarranted consideration consuming his thoughts. _Or, it had worked._

When Edward looked up, something caught his eye. There was blood, only a drop, on the far wall. If he hadn't looked directly at it, he wouldn't have seen it. Edward walked across the room, standing before the blood, staring at it, _possessed_ by it. The blood was red, but the blood was discolored, deformed. Edward had never seen blood like that, not even the artificial humans had blood like that, almost black. Edward reached out and touched it, the blood staining his skin, bleeding beneath his fingernails. And in the distance, Edward thought that he could hear someone calling his name, but the sound was overwhelmed by the ringing in his ears, only narrowing his attention further. But his daze was broken by something far more frightening, something like a _roar_.

And Adam, being Adam, had distracted himself from the fact that he was afraid by looking at everything but what he was looking for. Adam looked at the walls, the ceiling, the floor, finding nothing, all the while wandering into a small side room. There were no windows in the room, just a dim existence of light, and Adam opened the door allowing the light to enter. Adam was speechless, there was blood everywhere, gore crumbling in the corners, decay wafting from the floorboards. And a circle, red like rotten apples, bleeding through the grain of the wooden floor, damp as though it had never dried. Adam knew what it was, a transmutation circle, but he didn't know enough about alchemy to know what it was for. But the blood made Adam restless, knowing that this wasn't right, that it was _evil_. So Adam did what he did best, and called for Ed.

"Ed!" There was no answer from Edward, "Ed!" Adam sighed in frustration, looking around the room, at the _blood_ , how it was still dripping down the walls. Adam yelled one last time, upset, "Ed! Where the fuck are you!" Adam didn't want to be alone, things like this frightened him, they put _fear_ in him. Adam had a gun, just like Edward did, but he lacked finesse, a _good_ shot at best. But Adam had to hold onto the notion that the gun would save him, or Edward, because Ed was a dead shot. Adam had never seen Edward shoot anyone, and even though Ed had been an alchemist in the war, he still carried a rifle, and a Glock, to shoot people with. Adam didn't doubt that Edward had killed more than once, but it had been in war, and Adam couldn't condemn Ed for that.

Adam was interrupted by a _thump_ , and thinking that it was Edward, turned and sighed, " _Finally_ , what the hell have you been doing." Adam shut his mouth, though, his feet moving backwards, cold in his spine. He couldn't speak, his tongue was swollen, his mouth sutured shut, his words intangible. Because the thing standing in the doorway was not Edward, but something else, something aggressive and _ugly_. Adam could hear it breathing, see the steam of its breath, and could only watch in horror as the monster wept through its teeth. The monster took a step forward, not with its feet, but with claws, black and razor-sharp. And its eyes, _yellow_ , were staring into Adam, feral, and with sudden ferociousness, a _roar_.

Adam was trying to reach for his gun, but his hands were frozen, his fingers ice cold. So instead of firing his weapon, Adam turned and ran, the monster following behind. Adam was down the hallway, racing towards the arboretum, the monster tearing through the mortar, crashing into the walls, clambering to catch him. But Adam was too slow, the monster upon him, its jaw unhinged and hanging. Adam slipped upon the sodden leaves and salt, falling to the ground, turning to face the beast. He held out his hands, to shelter himself, knowing that it would do nothing. Adam closed his eyes to comfort himself, _because if he couldn't see the monster the monster couldn't see him_ , knowing all along that he was going to _die_.

However, in an instant, there was a _boom_ , the monster tumbling towards Adam in disarray. Adam opened his eyes, the beast bleeding from its head, breathing still, dying. Adam stood suddenly, scrambling to feet, if only to see Edward holding his gun. Ed had shot the monster right between its eyes, _dead_. Edward was motionless, though, his hand steady, his expression emphatic, waiting for the beast to rise. But soon the beast ceased to breathe, its eyes staring ahead, watching Edward lower his gun. Edward hadn't changed, his countenance was stationary, static, staring into the eyes of the monster.

"Fuck, Ed. _Fuck_."

Edward just looked at Adam, and when Edward spoke, it was not with his voice, but with the voice of another, "Are you alright."

Adam was shaking, his hands, his heart, his teeth, "The fuck, Ed. _Where_ were you?"

Edward didn't even blink. He placed his gun back in its holster, snapping the clip, and dropped his hands to his sides. It was like he was in shock, but the opposite, shut down, his motions mechanical. And Adam was about to say something else, when he realized that the world was spinning, his heart beating too fast, every breath shorter than the last. Edward was walking towards Adam, forcing him to sit down, Edward's hand resting on Adam's shoulder. Edward was looking into his eyes, but Edward wasn't there, it was someone else, someone hard. And Adam felt afraid, not because of the panic in chest, but because the person that he had worked with for the past ten years had disappeared, if only for a moment. Adam closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, attempting to abate the impending heart attack. But when he opened his eyes again, the world was still black.

Edward let Adam fall to the floor, allowing him to rest, Edward standing and walking towards the beast. He had seen monsters like that many times before, alchemist's made them to further their research, for science, and they made them for war. Edward had killed many chimeras, they were the most common of fiends, but this monster was different _somehow_. Edward couldn't place what was different, he hadn't used alchemy for years, nor had he tried to remember all of the things that he had learned. He allowed himself to forget, wanting to forget, because the knowledge had only brought him sorrow. Edward remembered chemistry, chemical names and numbers, but that was of rare use. In ten years he had never used any of his alchemic knowledge, except for earlier that day, and even that had been a limited amount.

And although Edward was distracted by the beast, he felt calm. It was a calmness that he had lost, like he felt _good_ , like he felt _strong_. Edward wasn't afraid, for his fear had fled, leaving him with what remained, which was _spite_. Maybe, it was rage. Maybe, it was his masochism. It was hard to really determine the feeling, but it was his most adamant quality, something that he shoved deep down inside, never letting anyone see that it was there. Because it was _there_ , and sometimes it escaped, or thrived, like in the war. _God, he felt good in the war_. But when he had retuned, and the world had gone back to normal, the adrenaline dropped, the shakes started, and he had to go back to saving Alphonse. _Alphonse_. Something in his brain twisted at the thought of his brother's name, it made him feel sick, but satisfied, and Edward grimaced. He never wanted to leave the war, he wanted to stay in the desert where it was warm, because _he_ wanted to. It could have been out of _spite_ , though, knowing that Alphonse hated the desert because it was _barren_. But that had been the very reason that Edward like the desert, _because_ it was barren. But Edward had returned, reluctantly, to a life that he hated, to a brother that he hated, to a city that he hated. Only to be where he was, _here_ , waiting for Adam to wake up from his panic attack so they could get the fuck out of there.

Edward, however, feeling as though he couldn't stand still, began to retrace Adam's steps. He found himself in the boiler, staring into a bloody room with another circle. The circle had produced the chimera, Edward knew that for sure, _bloody circles made chimeras_. There wasn't any evidence, the scene was corrupt, dirty, the chimera making sure of that. It was odd, though, the chimera, like it was a distraction. Like the chimera was supposed to lead them away, trick them into thinking that a monster had something to do with the crime. But Edward knew better, only monsters made monsters. That was the golden rule, _if there was one_. So Edward left the boiler and walked back into the arboretum.

At that very moment, Adam opened his eyes, sitting straight up, gasping for air. Adam stood, however, unsteadily, and shook his head. He immediately found Edward with his eyes and frowned, "I got to get out of here, Ed."

Edward nodded. Adam followed Edward out of the building, apprehensive of Edward's behavior, wondering when Ed would return to normal. _Normal_. And Adam scoffed at himself. Edward was anything but _normal_. Edward was so far passed normal that he had come full circle. His expressions were uncontrollable, violent, his mood rising and falling like blood sugar. Edward, despite his façade of anxiousness and agony, was dangerous, and Adam knew that. Adam didn't like this Edward, he preferred the emotionally unstable Edward, knowing that _he_ was less frightening, less _unpredictable_. When the mood struck Edward right, Adam was unsure of what Ed would do. Adam didn't think that Edward would ever hurt him intentionally, but Adam, at times, wondered if Edward would even save him. But Edward had, _saved him_.

Adam was almost to the car, but he stopped, his hand outreached but inoperative, "Can you drive, Ed?" Adam's hands were still shaking, uncontrollably, his heart rate through the roof. Adam placed his hand on his chest, feeling lightheaded, and _nauseous_. He reached into his pocket with his other hand and handed the keys to Edward, who took them. Edward never drove the car, he didn't even _own_ a car. It wasn't because Edward couldn't drive, but because he couldn't feel the clutch with his left foot.

Edward stopped beside Adam, "Do you want me to take you home."

The question was apathetic, even if it wasn't meant to be, and Adam looked at Edward, "Yeah, I think that I need to lie down." Adam took a breath, he couldn't even walk the last five feet to the car, the distance further than he remembered it to be. But Edward, feeling merciful, placed his hand on Adam's back and led him to the door, opening it, and helping Adam inside. Edward had then gotten in the car, started it, and began to drive away. The drive was spent in silence until Adam spoke, "Does it get any easier?"

Edward didn't understand the question, "Does _what_ get any easier?"

Adam was pushing, but he wanted an answer to his question, for his own wellbeing, " _This_ , being afraid."

Edward continued to stare at the road. The question was profound for Adam, but Edward answered nonetheless, "No." And Edward paused, contemplating what he was going to say next, thinking that he shouldn't speak, but feeling as though he should, "You have to let it go. Because if you don't, it's going to eat you alive." And Edward looked at Adam, right in the eyes, "Just look at what it did to _me_."

And Edward turned his head, ending the conversation.


	8. it was still October pt2

Syphon

Chapter eight: it was still October pt. 2

Adam lived just outside of Central. He lived in a small house with his wife and two kids. Edward had seen a picture of Adam's family, there was one on Adam's desk, Adam mentioning them from time to time. Adam trusted Edward with his personal information, Adam had even asked Edward for advice. But that was before Edward told Adam that he wasn't married, or in a relationship, and not to ask. But Adam asked for Edward's opinion, nonetheless, valuing Edward's outlook. Adam talked about his wife, their arguments, having Edward weigh in, Edward usually agreeing with Adam's wife. But that was the nature of their relationship, just far enough away as not to touch, not to _feel_.

When they arrived at Adam's house, the sun was setting, and Adam's wife was out front in the garden. Edward pulled into the driveway, parking. Edward got out of the car and walked around to the passenger's side door, opening it, and assisting Adam out of the car. Adam's wife, Kate, concerned by Adam's behavior, ran towards him, taking his hand. Edward let go of Adam, and Adam hugged his wife with relief, and kissed her. Edward looked away, uncomfortable.

Kate pulled away, "What happened? What's _wrong_?"

Adam was serious, holding Kate at arm's length, "I'm Ok. Everything is OK." Adam looked over at Edward, who was uneasy, unable to watch Adam and Kate's intimacy. Edward had started to turn, to leave, but Adam stopped him, "Kate, this is Edward."

Kate smiled, "It's nice to finally meet you, Edward." Kate was reaching for Edward's hand, but Ed pulled his hand away. Kate continued, however, unfazed, "I hear so much about you, I'm sorry that my husband is such a _pain_." Adam placed his hand over his heart as though he was in pain, smiling, as Kate motioned towards the house, "Please, come inside. Eat with us."

Edward grimaced, something terrible in his expression, "No, I shouldn't."

Adam looked at Edward, offering consolation, "It's OK, Ed, really. Please, _stay_."

Edward was anxiously biting at his lip, his eyes weary. He didn't want to go inside, he didn't want to talk to Adam and his wife, because he wanted to be left _alone_. The calm that Edward had been feeling had worn off, his arms feeling heavy, his chest tight. Edward wanted to cry, and it was unexplainable, unimaginable, as to why. He was being offered kindness, and in return, Edward wanted to weep. Edward tried to speak, but he couldn't find the words, so he nodded instead, biting through his lip. Kate opened her mouth as if to speak, but Adam took her hand and shook his head, knowing that nothing good would come of mentioning Edward's bloody lip. So Adam motioned for Edward to follow, Kate in his arms, walking towards the house.

Adam's house was modest, country in theme, white walls, white cabinets, wooden floors. There were photographs covering the walls, evidence of their happiness, all of different shapes and sizes. There were colorful paintings on the walls, portraits painted by their children, school projects, and paper bunting. The Bennett house was a happy house, at least, that was what Edward thought. There was appreciation for everyone in the household, admiration for each other's accomplishments, their hobbies, and their aspirations. Everyone was important and everyone had a place at the table. Edward knew that this was what he could have had, something as _simple_ as this, but he had thrown it away because he was _selfish_ , because he was _sad_. Edward felt his shoulders sag, resentment for Adam in his heart, and maybe, it wasn't resentment, but _jealousy_. Maybe, Edward was jealous of Adam's happiness, just like he was jealous of Alphonse's happiness, jealous because he wasn't _allowed_ to be happy. And as suddenly as the anger had swelled up inside him, it died, falling back down below the surface in defeat. Edward didn't have enough strength to be angry, so he accepted Adam's succor, because Adam was only trying to help him. _God have mercy on his soul._

Edward followed Adam and Kate into the dining room, Kate turning and demanding that Edward sit down. And Edward, compliant, sat down. Adam sat down across the table, placing his head in his hands, sighing, while Kate walked into the kitchen. Edward knew that Adam was putting on a show for Kate, Adam didn't want to worry her, not with his impending, if not imminent death. Edward didn't know if Adam was going to tell her what happened, about the chimera, or that he had narrowly escaped death. And maybe, he wouldn't mention it, preferring to let the memory die, knowing that Edward would do nothing.

Adam sighed, his fingers digging into his skin, "We should call someone and tell them what happened, _about the chimera_."

Edward was sitting with great strove, grinding his teeth, "No."

Adam looked up, "We have to call this in. I mean, you _shot_ the thing, Ed."

Edward was staring at Adam, expressionless, "I don't want to."

"They'll check your gun, Ed. They will see that a bullet is missing."

Edward ceased grinding his teeth, clenching them instead, "Then I'll lie."

Adam was almost furious, "Ed, what is wrong with you. This isn't _like_ you."

But Adam was interrupted by Kate, who had emerged from the kitchen, carrying a Dutch oven. She was smiling, "I know it's not much, the kids are at my mother's house for the weekend, so I only made enough for us." And Kate frowned upon seeing Adam's strained expression, "What's wrong, I _know_ there's something wrong."

Adam swallowed, unable to match Edward's stare any longer, "Nothing, just talking about the case. That it _sucks_ , the usual."

Kate let it go, placing the oven on the table. She opened the lid and let the food steam, and when the steam had subsided, placed a spoon in the pot. Kate looked at Edward, pushing the spoon towards him, "Help yourself."

Edward just stared at the spoon as though it was the bane of his existence. Edward was _starving_ , he hadn't eaten in days, and the smell of the food was intoxicating. And as much as the aroma of the roast was feeding Edward's senses, the smell also made him feel _ill_. And without warning, Edward pushed the spoon away and excused himself from the table.

Kate looked confused, and Adam spoke as if to reassure her, "Just let him go." Adam could see Edward through the window, he was on the porch smoking a cigarette. Adam could see Edward's hand shaking as he took a drag from the cigarette, his cheeks caving inwards, his eyes closed. The cigarette was the only thing holding Ed together, like fortification, a wall made of nicotine with carcinogens for mortar.

Kate frowned, "Is he OK?"

Adam also frowned, "I don't know, I never know."

Kate looked away from Edward, turning her attention back at Adam, "What happened today, Adam? Something doesn't feel right."

Adam sighed, placing his head back into his hands, "The case is going to hell, Kate. We don't have any leads and I almost got mauled by a goddamn lion."

"What?"

Adam was mumbling through his fingers, "Ed shot the thing right through the fucking eyes, _saved my fucking life_."

The shock was evident in Kate's voice, and the _fear_ , "Adam, you know better than to put yourself into that kind of situation. You can't be reckless, you have to come home. You made a promise to me, you made a promise to our _children_." And Kate reached out and rested her hand on Adam's arm, "You know better."

Adam looked up, something somber in his eyes, "I didn't know, I swear." And Adam smiled, then, "It was Ed's idea, you should yell at _him_."

Adam and Kate were quiet for a moment, and upon hearing the door open and close, they looked up to see Edward enter the room. Edward had taken off his sweater, he was sweating from the early signs withdrawal, his hands shaking. Ed sat down, placing his hands on the table, acknowledging them, and suddenly wrenching them underneath the table. Edward was still refusing to concede to the food, or the spoon, and stared at his empty plate. Adam and Kate had served themselves while Edward was away, and were picking at their food, unenthusiastically.

Kate was feeling anxious, Edward was making her feel anxious, and she spoke, filling the silence with small talk, "Edward, tell me about yourself. Where are you from?"

Edward looked at Kate, "Resembool."

The answer was short, a single breath, and Kate continued, "I hear that Resembool is very beautiful. Do you have any family, Ed?"

Edward frowned, "I have a brother, Alphonse. He's younger, looks just like our mother." Edward paused, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, suddenly correcting himself, " _What I mean to say is_ that we look nothing alike."

"Are your brother's eyes pale like yours, Edward? I've never seen someone with eyes like yours."

Edward opened his mouth to speak, speechless, stumbling around the words, "No, Al has brown eyes. I have a," and Edward stuttered, unable to form the words, "it's a genetic disorder. I lack pigment in my eyes and in my hair." And Edward swallowed, his throat dry, "It's a form albinism, more of a distant cousin, really. I got it from our father." And when Edward said the word _father_ , his throat closed, like an allergic reaction. Because Edward looked just like his father, handsome, with translucent eyes. His hair was long, just like his father. His skin was olive, just like his father. Edward was even a sociopath, _just like his father_. He was aware that the things he hated about his father were the same things that he hated about himself. They were adjacent, almost identical, and Edward bit his lip, _again_ , opening the wound.

Kate thought that Edward was odd, and even though she had only known Ed for a half of an hour, she knew that there was something wrong with him. Sadness, but hate, anger, followed by purposelessness. Edward's depression was clear, but there was something tremendous hiding beneath, like a knot, twisting, suffocating itself. And Kate, worried about Edward, all the while worrying about what Edward was capable of doing, kept on smiling. Adam had told her countless times that Edward was harmless, but the man sitting across from her was anything but harmless. Edward was like a syphon, drained and yet drowning all at once, anyone with eyes could see that. But Kate trusted Adam, and Adam trusted Edward, so Kate in turn trusted Edward, _for now_.

But Kate was curious, though, having seen Edward's hand. Adam had never mentioned Edward's hand, not once in ten years. She was confused by Adam's digression, only because it was so noticeable, so out of place. And without thinking, Kate spoke, "What happened to your arm?"

Adam had begun to show concern for the conversation, and he was going to step in, but Edward had begun to speak, "I lost my arm," and Edward trailed off, pausing for a moment, "and my leg." Again, Edward paused, longer than the last, as though he had finished speaking, but he continued then, _with longing_ , "I had to have them amputated."

Kate was in shock, "That's horrible, _I'm so sorry_."

Edward's voice was low, "I have the automail now, and I can get around. It's not a big deal." The words lacked conviction, as though Edward was really saying, _I can't get around and it fucking hurts_. At least, that was what it sounded like, Edward forcing the words out through his teeth, as if the lie physically pained him.

Kate was still curious, pushing the conversation further, "Did it hurt?"

Ed just looked away.

Kate was waving her hands, apologizing, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I didn't know what to ask, really. It was obvious, I shouldn't have said anything."

Edward had turned his head back towards Kate, his eyes tired, exhaustion setting in. Ed took a breath, trying to smile, but only grimacing, "I understand. Everyone asks." Adam was about to say something, but Edward spoke again, "Thank you for having me," and Edward looked at Adam and then back to Kate, "I have to go." And Edward stood, turning and heading towards the door.

Adam also stood, "Do you want me to drive you home, at least."

Edward never turned around, "No." And Edward walked through the door, down the side walk, and back towards Central.

Edward wasn't sure how long that it took him to walk home, but the time seemed immaterial, as he stood before his apartment door. Edward took out his keys and unlocked the door, stepping inside. The room was dark and Edward turned on the light, hanging his sweater on the knob, and turning on the heat. Edward was cold from sweating, knowing that if he took something he would feel warm, but he felt sick. Edward was hungry, but he didn't want to eat, he _refused_ to eat. And if only for a second, Edward knew that this was end, he couldn't take anymore. He was wasting away, and this, _this was enough_. Edward took a bottle from the kitchen, an unopened bottle of tequila, and sat down at the table. He just started drinking, but was distracted, though, by his answering machine, blinking red. Ed stood up, wavering, having consumed the majority of the tequila, and pressed rewind. When the tape stopped spinning, having arrived at the beginning, Edward pressed play.

The words were muddled, but that was just the alcohol, and the voice was familiar, someone that Edward worked with from time to time. Edward replayed the tape several times, unable to grasp the message, until the words aligned, and Edward came to understand their meaning. The Central Police had arrested a man, a suspect, derived from DNA on the girl. Because despite the body having been bleached, the rape had left substantiation. But Edward, who had drank the rest of the tequila while listening to the message play over and over, never believed that the rape was relevant. It was evidence, it was important, but Edward didn't believe that the man who had killed the girl had raped her. But it didn't matter, because Edward was done.

Edward threw the empty bottle of tequila to the ground, the glass shattering. Edward walked across the kitchen and into the bedroom, turning on the light. His bed was untouched, unused, but it would have to do. It was good enough. Edward turned off the lights, walked to the bed, sat down, and took out his gun. Ed placed the barrel underneath his jaw, pressing the steel into his skin, breathing in the carbon. The gun still smelled like powder, and Edward closed his eyes. He didn't even count to three before pulling the trigger.


	9. intermission

Syphon

Chapter nine: intermission

Edward's mother, Trisha, was dying from a slow disease. The name of the disease, complicated as it was, Edward couldn't remember. Trisha would tell him that she was dying, not from bacteria, but from a broken heart, heartbroken at the thought of leaving her children. But Trisha didn't die from a broken heart, more like heart disease. Edward would lay in bed next to her, during the day, and at night, watching her chest rise and fall. But she died one night, in her sleep, Edward watching until the end. Edward let her go, never waking her, never taking her hand. Edward laid beside his mother until morning, staring at her, wondering why he didn't try to stop her. He was so young, Alphonse much younger, unknowing of death and the consequences thereafter.

Alphonse had blamed Edward for their mother's death, for a time, when he realized that Edward hadn't woken her. The doctor had told them to do so, she might slip into a coma, or worse, the disease would take her. But Edward couldn't stay awake any longer. He couldn't listen to his mother gasping for breath in her sleep, or mumbling his name, asking for their father. So Edward decided when enough was enough, making a decision that no child should have to make. Their mother wasn't going to get better, she was dying, and it was cruel to prolong her suffering. And Edward, child or not, knew that. Edward let her go peacefully, without pain, believing that he had made the right decision. He never doubted his choice, not once, not ever, knowing that she was in a better place. She was in heaven, but Edward knew better now, _because there was no heaven_.

Edward remembered the memory so clearly, the day Trisha died. Edward had gotten out of bed, exhausted, but awake, and walked into the living room. He stared at the wall for hours, waiting for Alphonse to get out of bed, wondering what he would say. And when Al had awoken, standing before Edward rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he asked about their mother, _how is mom?_ Edward could have told Al the truth _, but he lied,_ simply stating that she was sleeping and not to bother her. Alphonse wanted to see her, but Edward said no, adamantly, _angrily_ , without restraint. That was the first time that Edward felt hatred towards his brother, and maybe, it wasn't hatred at the time, more of an inflammatory response. It wasn't Alphonse's fault, it wasn't anyone's fault, but Al wouldn't leave him alone. Edward was twelve, experiencing something horrible inside, something that he shouldn't have felt upon his mother's death. He was relieved, satisfied, _but pained_ , he felt like he would cry, but not in sadness, in strife. It was a complicated feeling, one that Edward didn't understand, and he allowed himself to feel that way.

At first, Edward did nothing. He made sure that Alphonse went to school, deciding that he would stay home, Ed having missed many school days due to his mother's sickness. He laid on the couch for most of the day, he felt heavy, the same heaviness that he felt now, until he realized that he would have to do _something_. He couldn't keep Alphonse away forever, and he couldn't let the authorities find his mother decomposing in her bed, that would reflect poorly on him. _They might think that he was sick_. In desperation, Edward tried to call their father, he didn't want to, but he didn't want to call the police. He sat on the couch listening to the phone ring, over, and over, and over, until the machine picked up. Then he would start again, dial tone, ringing, the answering machine, for hours Edward waited for his father to pick up the phone. But he never did. Edward _hated_ their father, but he needed him, for once, just once, to help him, to be his _father_. But, eventually, Edward relented, deciding that his father would never answer.

Edward was alone, defeated, unknowing of what to do. He could call the Rockbell's, but what would he say, _my mother is dead and I watched her die._ Edward couldn't find the words, all of them sounded apathetic, if not angry. Edward spoke the words over and over again, listening to his own voice, grimacing at the sound. He sounded like he didn't care, like he didn't care that his mother was _dead_. Edward knew that the Rockbell's loved Alphonse, but they were cautious of him, his pretentiousness, and his intelligence. Edward was equal parts likable and unlikable at the same time, aggressive, passive aggressive, all at once. But Edward didn't want to talk to anyone, let alone the Rockbell's. So Edward did nothing, remaining on the sofa, holding steadfast to the phone, staring at the wall. That was, until the door opened, Alphonse walking through. But Al wasn't alone, Winry was with him, and her parents.

Edward didn't stand, he had gone numb some time ago. He was supposed to pick Alphonse up from school, to wait for and to walk him home, but he had forgotten. Time had passed, _hours_ , and Edward had never moved, still stationary. Alphonse yelled _hello_ as he ran past, heading for their mother's room, but Edward grabbed his arm, suddenly, wrenching him back. The action was incredibly violent, but Edward didn't let go, he even left a bruise. Winry's mother was screaming his name, commanding Edward to let go, but Ed remained, Alphonse clawing at Edward's fingers. The words that came out of Edward's mouth weren't his own, they were calm and the sentiment astray, _you can't go in there_. But as soon as Edward spoke, Winry's father had taken a hold of Ed's arm, pulling him away from Alphonse. Edward fell to the ground, his legs inept, but that was when he still had his leg, and it hurt, because at that time, Edward could still feel things. Winry's mother was comforting Alphonse, Winry's father standing above Edward, furious, speaking, but Edward couldn't hear the words. He had gone deaf, a ringing in his ears, like he was drowning, the room filled with water.

Winry's mother was taking Alphonse to see their mother, Winry's father standing between Edward and Alphonse, and Edward shut his mouth, he wouldn't speak, he _couldn't_ speak. They would find Trisha, cold, she had been dead for almost twenty-four hours now, the blame resting solely on Edward's shoulders. Edward was breathing heavily, his chest the weight of lead, rocks, stone, crushing him. And it was abrupt, Edward finding his way to his feet, turning and leaving the house. No one stopped him, _not yet_. It was only a matter of seconds, Edward hearing the sound of his name, but it was being drowned out by the pounding of his heart. He had started out walking, but the fear was setting in, and soon he was running across the yard and down through the fields. Edward didn't even have shoes on, but he didn't care, not about his bloody feet, because he had to get away. He felt trapped, like he needed to escape, so Edward ran, further, and further, away from home. And when Edward could run no further, he collapsed, and that was where he stayed, for two days.

Edward didn't know if anyone had even looked for him, but he had been picked up by a patrol car some time later. They had taken him to the local station, asked his name, and when he did not speak, called child services. The officers had offered Edward food, but he had refused it, and when they sent for a nurse to do something about his bloody feet, Edward refused to be touched. But it wasn't long before someone figured out who Edward was, that he had been missing, that he was a runaway. Edward could hear the officers talking about him, about how he didn't tell anyone that his mother was dead, that he was planning on leaving her there to rot, that he was _fucked up_. Edward tried to leave, he was ashamed, but there were too many officers. They ended up handcuffing Edward to a chair, he was a flight risk, and the Rockbell's didn't show up until the next morning. And when the Rockbell's did arrive, they weren't happy, not to see Edward, not in the least. But they took Edward home nonetheless, with _disdain_.

The Rockbell's were doctors, they stitched up Ed's feet, and left him alone. They wouldn't let Edward see Alphonse, deeming Edward unfit, or an inconvenience. Maybe, they thought of Edward as a bad influence, or maybe, they thought that he had lost it, that he was crazy. But they hadn't seen crazy, _not yet_ , not from Edward. Edward was satisfied by the arrangement, though, he liked the solitude, the silence. The Rockbell's didn't make him go back to school, they didn't want to deal with Edward, knowing that he was a problem, that he had always been a problem, even for Trisha. So Edward would lay in bed all day, depressed, equally as despondent, sustaining stress, anxiety ridden.

That was, until one day, when Alphonse came into his room, crying, "I want mom." Edward tried to ignore Alphonse, he was tired, trying to waste away. But Alphonse was relentless, "You said that alchemy can bring people back."

The conversation had taken a turn, Edward unconvinced, "I can't bring mom back."

Alphonse was wiping away his tears, "You said that if anyone could do it, _you could_." Edward was going to respond, but Al cut him off, "You didn't wake mom up, it's your _fault_." Alphonse was crying, heavily, heaving with every breath, "You let mom die, _why did you let her die?_ " Edward did nothing, he just sat there and took it, knowing that he probably deserved it. But Alphonse wasn't finished, he just kept going, stripping the screw, "And dad left, _because of you_."

And that hurt, it was like a knife, Edward gripping his chest as though he had been stabbed. Their father had left because of him, because his father was a bad man, because Edward couldn't keep his mouth shut. Alphonse didn't _understand_. Alphonse was feeding Edward's unhappiness, his pain, his shame, pushing Edward closer to the edge. What could Ed say in his defense, that he didn't mean it, that it wasn't his fault, that he was just a child? Al was going to break Edward with guilt, guilt about their mother, their father, because Edward was an asshole, because he deserved it, because Edward did bad things. Alphonse was only eight, but he knew what he was doing. His plan was to disallow Edward to move past their mother's death, forcing him to bring her back. And Edward relented, if not a couple of months later, when the guilt had started making him sick. His stress was manifesting physically, he was nauseous, vomiting. And around Edward's mouth, hives, blooming like blisters, spreading down his neck and onto his chest.

Edward tried to live with it, the _guilt_ , the nausea and the hives, but it was eating away at him. He couldn't eat because of the nausea, _because his neck was swollen_ , and he couldn't sleep because of the itching, the ever insistent and incessant, itching. Edward eventually tore his lips open, scabs replacing the skin, Edward picking at them with his teeth. But no one really cared that Edward had done such a thing, that he was suffering, that he had torn open his neck, his chest, that he had open wounds. The itch was deeper than his skin and Edward kept scratching, deeper, and deeper, tissue festering beneath his fingernails, but it was never enough. He could never scratch the itch, because the itch was immaterial, only a figment of his imagination.

What Edward did next, he did for Alphonse, because Alphonse asked him to. Edward stole money from the Rockbell's and purchased the ingredients from his alchemy books, every ingredient, down to the milligram. Edward hid them at his house, in his father's study. Edward had drawn the circle, done the math, measured every ingredient, and maybe, if only for a moment, did Edward believe that it might work. And years later, after the transmutation, Edward considered the consequences. Did the gate take Alphonse's body because he wanted their mother back? Edward was a bystander, and when the gate offered to show him the truth, he gave his leg, that was _his_ choice. And when Edward returned to see Alphonse missing, he gave his arm for Al's soul, and even that had been _his_ choice. And at some point, Edward wondered if the gate had really taken anything from him, or if he had always been that way.

And despite what happened, and no matter how transparent, Edward never told anyone what really happened, not to him, not the truth. The truth was, Alphonse, eight years old, a suit of armor, told the military what Edward had done. _So you've heard the truth_. But Edward's leg didn't disappear, not like Alphonse's body, not like his arm, because that wasn't the _truth_. It was as though his leg wasn't really a sacrifice, just a down payment. The transmutation of their mother lasted only a moment, Edward appearing, whole. Edward had been so horrified by the sight of his mother, that he hadn't noticed his leg, which was turning black. And in the interim, Edward drew the blood seal, sacrificing his arm, _gone_.

The pain came afterwards, though, aching and angry, through his chest and down his leg. His leg had become deadweight, melting into carbon, but it was really rot, liquefying his muscle into mush. In a single second, Edward knew what he had to do, accepted it, and dragged himself over to the supplies, taking hold of a knife. There were no words to describe the pain. Edward had lost his vision at some point, blindly cutting his flesh, and when he got down to the bone, he broke it with a hammer, _snap_. Edward passed out at some point, unfinished, bleeding to death. But Edward woke up some time later, never knowing exactly how long that he had been lying there, only to find maggots writhing around underneath his skin. Edward couldn't see them, he could _feel_ them, eating him like a piece of meat. He gouged them out with his fingers, his hands shaking, making the final cut.

When Edward woke up, he was at the hospital. It took a couple of days for Ed to realize where he was or what had happened. He was suffering from a fever, infection in his leg, delirium obstructing his thoughts. The doctors weren't certain that Edward would pull through, they had to amputate his leg further up his thigh, the initial cut sick, spreading. And his bones, splintered from the blow, sawed off at the stub. It wasn't long before Edward realized what he had done, and it wasn't long after that, only a few minutes, that Edward tried to smother himself. He was stopped though, by a nurse, his remaining arm tied to the bed. Edward was in too much pain to struggle, so he just laid there, _in pain_ , waiting for the pain to end, but the pain was never ending.

Edward didn't even know if he had brought Alphonse back, no one had come to see him at the hospital, which made Edward feel helpless, _hopeless_. But a few weeks later, Edward was visited by the Major General, and at first, Edward thought that they would imprison him, charge him with murder, _hang him_. But the General was happy to see Edward, and he greeted Ed with a smile, "Edward, how are you?"

Edward refused to speak, he hadn't spoken since the accident, and he just looked at the man, grimacing through the pain. It was clear _how_ _he was feeling_ , his leg was inflamed, his shoulder bleeding, the infection still rampant, red in his veins. Edward hadn't seen himself, but he imagined that he looked _delightful_. But the man continued to smile, speaking through it, "Normally, what you have done would be considered a crime. But, today is your lucky day."

Edward felt himself drifting, and he closed his eyes, listening. There was something in the man's voice, a sense of achievement, and pride, "I've heard a lot about you, Edward. What you have accomplished is no small feat, _you were so close_." Edward never opened his eyes, but the man knew that he was listening, "I'm here to make a deal, _yes_?"

Edward nodded in understanding, exhausting himself.

The man sat down on the edge of the bed, "The military will pay for you to receive an experimental procedure. You will receive a new arm, a new leg. And in return, you join the military as an alchemist. We wouldn't make this kind of deal to just anyone, Ed. We acknowledge your intellect, we could always use someone like you." And the man paused, smiling, "And the charges, they will be dropped, _of course_."

Edward was tired, but he understood. No one else wanted him, only the military. Edward didn't want to go to war, he didn't want to take the deal, _but he did_. He didn't even think about it. Ed tried to raise his hand, but it was in vain. The man apprehended the action, and he shook Edward's hand, gently, "Once the infection clears up, you will be moved to the military hospital. That is where you will receive the procedure." And the man paused, "Is there anyone that you want me to inform, friends, family?"

Edward shook head _no_.

The man stood, adjusting the collar of his shirt, "Alright, I'll be seeing you, Edward."

And the man left, leaving Edward alone.


	10. intermission pt2

Syphon

Chapter ten: intermission pt. 2

The infection had only been absent for a week before the operation. Edward had suffered for months on and off, the illness refusing to heal. It had been almost a year since the accident, Edward lying in a hospital bed, dying of organ failure. It was a miracle that he had survived, but Edward didn't believe in miracles, this was _punishment_. But he couldn't work himself up, though, his heart was weak, his blood pressure low. Edward had months to think about the operation, wondering why he had taken the deal. He had been toxic inside, boiling in his brain, unaware. But Edward knew what he was doing, he signed his name on the bottom of a contract, _thirty years_ , not even a signature, just a trembling line. Edward had lost the ability to write, if not momentarily, lacking muscle memory, coordination, and more importantly, resolve. He didn't want to learn how to write again, he didn't want to learn how to walk again, he didn't want to start over. It was _too_ much.

After the first month, the military started paying for his treatment. The Rockbell's never came to see him, praying that he had died, would die, knowing that Edward would do something like _that_. _That_ , being, Edward killing Alphonse and his causing his own dismemberment. But it wasn't just the Rockbell's, everyone in Resembool knew what he had done. There had been a tremendous light, phosphorescent, and the military had been called. Initially, the alchemic light was thought to be a terrorist attack, not a twelve year old boy playing with matches. It was Edward's fault. His mother was dead, _that_ was his fault. Alphonse was dead, _that_ was his fault. His arm and leg were gone, _that_ was his fault. Edward thought that if he had been stronger, if he hadn't let Alphonse get under his skin, that, maybe, he would still be whole. Edward was just doing what he had to do to survive, and if he had to join the military, get artificial limbs, _die_ , he would do it.

The surgery was just as painful as Edward remembered, there wasn't any adrenaline, not like when he cut off his leg. The pain was raw, nerve pain opposed to flesh pain. The goal of the surgery was to attach a port, creating an enduring part of the anatomy, stable enough to sustain the weight of metal. The outside, or the finish of the port, was stainless steel. The inside of the port was brass, a dissimilar metal, as not to degrade the bushings inside the socket. The port was attached first, screwed into bone, muscle, and though skin. The doctors started with Edward's leg, but his skin had healed, so a new cut was made, _just an inch_. The cut had to be fresh, clean, because the doctors, _and maybe they weren't even doctors_ , said that a fresh cut made for better adhesion. There was a tourniquet, Edward bleeding through, watching as the final cut was made. The port was searing hot when it was attached, cauterizing the wound like glue, stable enough for sutures and screws. And once the port was true, they connected his nerves and his blood vessels one at a time, painstakingly, hour after hour, anchoring the port to his upper thigh.

Edward's arm was another matter altogether, and having already been on the table for eight hours, Ed was done. He was exhausted from the pain, delirious, the fever returning. But the doctors weren't finished, the military was unrelenting, time was money. So instead of letting Edward heal, they prepped him for the second surgery. Edward lost his arm at the shoulder, _through_ the shoulder, right in half. The dilemma was that without his shoulder the arm would be unsupported, and without a rotator cuff the arm would be useless. The doctors decided to remove the rest of Edward's shoulder, coming to the conclusion that, if Edward was going to have an arm, he had to have something of equal strength to support it. So the doctors screwed a plate, heavy enough, with leverage enough, three eighths thick, to his breast. The plate was a brace, which was then screwed into another plate, only quarter inch, underneath his skin as leverage. The plates were formed to fit his shoulder, _or where his shoulder should have been_ , soldered to his breast bone and then bolted fast to the reverse, a weld that was dangerously close to his spine.

Edward remembered every second of it, he was awake, weeping involuntarily from the pain. He couldn't be put under, nerves were tricky, active, and yet inactive. Edward would pass out, the number of times intangible, but was awoken immediately after. And at some point, Edward died, his heart stopped. There was a blood transfusion, Edward bleeding to death, and resuscitation, once, twice, until he took a breath. Edward awoke to pain, blazing, his heart on fire, burning. But the surgery was far from over, and Edward clenched his teeth, breaking them. It was cruel, it was torture, but he couldn't stop, not now. His signature was black, only ink, but it might have well have been blood. They even replaced his teeth, shattered from incredible stress, now stainless steel.

The months following the surgery were excruciating, nothing but inflammation and pain. Edward had another infection, in his arm, reconstruction required. The ports would itch, like they were healing, but he couldn't scratch them. He couldn't sleep, but the military was kind, they gave him drugs, anything to keep him still. Morphine, Oxycodone, OxyContin, _anything_. And Edward accepted the haze, he liked it, being unfeeling. He would lay in the hospital bed, day after day, _high_ , only moving when the doctors came to check his arm and leg. At some point, Edward's muscle memory had kicked in, the nerves complete, incorporated. Edward felt the same, just heavier, and _sick_ , because metal makes you feel sick. But it wasn't sickness, it was toxic shock, and Edward had to be bled to purify his blood, a cut here, a leech there. Edward never felt better, just weak, the sickness never really going away.

When Edward had finally healed, he was immediately rehabilitated. And not only was he taught how to walk, to use his arm, his hand, he was trained to fight. His training was influenced greatly by his automail, on his distribution of weight, how he was heavier, but lighter, which made him stronger. Edward was smart, the military knew that, and he excelled, pushing the pain aside and popping pills. And as for Edward's alchemy, the military didn't even have to train him, Edward was exceptional, and it was left at that. Edward was almost fifteen when he finished his rehabilitation, but he wasn't fifteen, he was much older. He had seen too much, and he had been trained to use that, his hate, his wrath, to defy and undermine. But, in the end, Edward was just a child, and he knew that.

It wasn't long after that, only a few weeks, when Alphonse appeared. It had taken Alphonse almost two years to bring himself to see Edward, out of anger, regret, or guilt. Edward had been living in the military dorms, and upon hearing a knock on the door, he answered, a suit of armor standing before him. Edward recognized his voice first, feeling sick, wanting to slam the door in Al's face. He wanted to think that he was dreaming, or that it was just a nightmare, but it was real, the _consequences_. Edward allowed Alphonse to enter, Ed sitting at the table, Al following suit. Edward spoke then, with _guilt_ , "I'm sorry."

Alphonse wasn't sure what to say, but he did notice that Edward was different. The first thing that Al noticed was his teeth, how Edward talked through them, that they were _metal_. And just above the collar of Edward's shirt, a scar, from his neck and down his chest, obscured by his shirt, an anchor that had torn through him. Al was afraid to ask, and he didn't. But what Alphonse did, then, was ask for something else, "Brother, you have to _fix_ me."

Edward didn't respond, he didn't even look at Alphonse. They sat in silence for a time, Edward finally finding the words, "I know." Alphonse reached for his hand, but Edward pulled it away, pulling the sleeves of his shirt around his fingers. Edward sighed, "I'll fix it." And so began Edward's research, hopeless, inconclusive, and indeterminable. Edward did everything that he could for Alphonse, gave him anything that he wanted, hope, and _lies_. And then, when Edward felt like he couldn't take it anymore, the pain, and keeping his automail a secret from Al, the war began.

Edward was sixteen when he went to war. He remembered the smell, the burning, like the world was on fire. There was nothing more horrifying than war, the very sight of it, the smoke and the barbed wire. The military didn't care who they sent to war, just that they had men to fight, and _monsters_. Edward was a monster, an alchemist of metal and earth, dragging soldiers down to their death, burying them alive. It was easy, all he had to do was clap his hands, and for that, he had paid the price. Edward would contaminate the air with metal ash, the purpose, _suffocation_. He would turn the sand into shards of glass, tearing through leather, skin, with infection soon to follow. And when Edward wasn't nailing soldier's feet to the earth, he was polluting the water with lead, poisoning them from the inside out. But that was only a small part of a much larger whole, because Edward's partner, Kimblee, made things explode. Edward would release fossil fuels and oils from the earth into the air, Kimblee igniting the gas into fire, _boom_.

Kim understood Edward, and Edward understood Kim. Because if there was ever a psychopath, it was Kim, and Edward liked that about him. And when they weren't killing they were getting high, their relationship parasitic, Kim feeding off of Edward's addictive qualities. But Edward didn't care, he liked to get high, he liked being _hungry_ , and he liked needles. Edward had learned to like pain, he forced himself to, not because he cut off his leg, but because he liked to suture himself back up. There was something sensual about it, something that Edward couldn't explain, a satisfaction, that he couldn't describe. Kim wanted Edward's masochism, and Edward wanted Kim to take it, so they would fuck each other. It wasn't because they loved each other, not even because they liked each other, but because Kim matched Edward's violence with his own violence.

They were the favorite partnership of the Major General, because they were _bad_ , because they were _good_ at being bad. They would be sent ahead of the troops, wreaking havoc and destruction, Edward sinking the tanks, Kimblee lighting the fire. Edward would walk over the dead bodies like they were a part of the earth, but they were, Edward had made it so, and it made him feel _good_. It felt good to be bad, to be needed. And as sick and tired as Edward was, as he became, he was happy. Edward wasn't sure if it was happiness, but it was something other than shame, about his mother, his brother. He was preoccupied during the day, and at night, he never slept. The war lasted three years, Edward deployed day one, remaining until the bitter end. And then, the war ended, Edward almost nineteen.

Edward was on the last train home. He didn't want to leave, he didn't want to go home, _home_ an indeterminable place. Alphonse was waiting at the station, but Edward didn't get off the train, riding to the end of the line with Kim. For a couple of months, Edward stayed with Kim, getting high, having violent sex, and drinking. At the time, Edward considered staying, _fuck Alphonse_ , but after a while, the drugs weren't enough, or the violence. The sex became painful for Edward, and Edward left, _dissatisfied_. Kim always welcomed Edward, if he were to return, knowing that he would, even if it wasn't permanent. And Edward did return, from time to time, seeking comfort in pain, in Kim, because Kim understood what it was like to feel pain. Kim was Edwards one and only friend, one that Alphonse didn't know, nor liked.

However, when Edward did decide to return home, _home_ being with Alphonse, he was angry. And maybe, it wasn't anger, something like anger, because he _had_ to be there. Alphonse didn't speak to Edward for a week after he arrived, knowing that Edward was on the train, knowing that Edward had deliberately left him alone, abandoning him. But Edward wasn't really in a state to hold a conversation, he was high, followed by withdrawal, high again, withdrawal. A cycle that Edward had begun to expect, as if it were _normal_. After the first week, Alphonse asked Edward for money, to buy food, to buy things, things that they needed. But Edward said no, denying Alphonse of control, Edward demanding to be in control _because he wasn't_. And Alphonse wasn't stupid, he knew that Edward's behavior was erratic, that he was high, but he never said anything, not to Ed, but to Mustang. Edward had returned home one night, he had told Al that he was at the library, but he was really with Kim, wasted, and fucked up. At first, Ed was unaware that anyone was there, the world was blurry, melting, but he soon realized that Alphonse was sitting at the table with Roy. Roy, _unhappy_.

The conversation was short, having begun with Edward stating a predatory, _get the fuck out of my apartment_. It was directed at Roy, but it might as well have been directed towards Alphonse, because Edward felt betrayed by him. Edward was doing his best, but Al didn't understand that, how much pain that he was in, how the guilt was _crushing_ him. Every day was harder than the last, and Edward was losing ground, grip, anything to pull himself out of the hole that he had dug. No one thought to help him, but reprimand him, because he was doing bad things, for attention, because he was arrogant. And Roy, feeling as though Edward was out of control, _uncontrollable_ , spoke, "Edward, if you don't clean up your act, you will be discharged from the military, dishonorably." Edward couldn't reply, he wouldn't, and when he didn't, Roy stood, standing before Edward, towering above him, asserting his dominance, "Do you understand me?"

Edward just looked at Roy, his expression a sneer, his eyes burning, glossy from the liquor. He couldn't form words, there was nothing that he could say. And in a split second, as Edward had begun to turn away, Roy struck him across the face. Edward fell to the floor, falling on is metal shoulder, cracking the tile. Edward let his head strike the floor, his vision white, his shoulder shifting, pulling at the sutures and seams. He rolled over onto his back, resting his head on the tile, grasping at his shoulder, bleeding through his shirt. Automail was strong, but skin was weak. And even though Edward was bleeding from his head, from his nose, in disarray, the pain from his shoulder was raw, radiating, _debilitating_. Edward couldn't breathe, his heart clenching as his nerves misfired, rolling onto his other side, gasping for air.

Roy didn't help him, why would he? He let Edward writhe around on the floor, waiting for the pain to subside, and when Edward seemed coherent enough, _defeated_ enough, Roy spoke again, "Will you ever learn, Edward? It's not about you." Roy was looking Edward in the eyes, "You need to take care of your brother, that's your job. That is _your_ responsibility." And as Roy turned to leave, "You will take a drug test every week until you get your shit together." Roy left then, accomplished, feeling like he had solved the problem. Edward just laid on the ground, defeated, ashamed, _beaten down_. Edward struggled to stand, the world was spinning, he was nauseous, and Alphonse walked over to him, concerned. Alphonse tried to help Ed, but Edward pushed his hand away, violently, all but screaming, " _Don't fucking touch me_." Alphonse withdrew his hands and let Edward go.

Edward couldn't afford to lose his job, or afford anymore guilt, so he did as he was told. It took a couple of weeks for Edward to fully withdraw, and or stand to be alone with himself, and or look in the mirror without having to get high, from the _disgust_ , from the self-loathing. His skin felt like it was crawling, his teeth were aching, his shoulder pressing down on his heart, his leg keeping him still standing. It took everything, _everything_ , to get up in the morning, to fucking breathe. He would go to work, read words without understanding them, knowing that they meant nothing. He couldn't fix Alphonse, he had known that from the start, just like he knew that he couldn't bring their mother back. He just kept pushing it aside, deeper and deeper in his brain, housing enough guilt to cause cancer. At some point, Edward would just stare at the words, he wouldn't even read them, just to say that he was there, that he was still alive. Then Edward would go home, having accomplished nothing, only to lay in bed until the next morning. He never slept, he just stared at the ceiling, the PTSD setting in, gripping his throat. And the pain, the chronic pain, not the pain that he wanted, aching, aching, aching, and never ending. Edward felt incapable, like he couldn't move on, like he was trapped in a box, suffocating.

And that was when Edward did something stupid, when he felt like the end was near, because there was nothing else that he _could_ do. The artificial humans had been discovered then, or let loose, Edward was never really clear on what happened, only that he, and Kim, were sent to kill them. Maes Hughes had been murdered, Alphonse's father figure, and Roy's personal friend. Edward didn't go to the funeral, he was out doing his job, being the Fullmetal Alchemist. And somewhere in the mess that the monsters created, they left evidence of something unusual, and unnatural. They had no hearts, just stones, pieces of the philosopher's stone. And because Edward had been sent to kill them, he collected the parts, the stone healing itself until it was whole again. Edward never told anyone, deciding to keep the stone a secret. Edward did what he had to do to get information, he killed for it, _anything_. And if only for a moment, he felt good, like in the war. But that came to an end when Edward did the unthinkable, he used the stone. Alphonse had been there, Mustang on his way, Edward knowing that he only had a matter of seconds before Roy's arrival. If anyone saw the stone, they would take it from him, Edward would never have another chance. There was a flash of light, Alphonse appearing, whole. That was the beginning of the story, or the end.

Edward was never really sure.


	11. it was still October pt3

Syphon

Chapter eleven: it was still October pt. 3

If Edward had shot himself, the story would have ended. But Ed had hesitated, taken a breath, the trigger half drawn. Because Edward, if not wasted, _desperate_ , heard the front door open and close. Edward stared at the light illuminating the doorway, dropping his hand, and the gun, trying to force himself to stay, _to fucking do it already_. But Edward stood, his hand falling to the bed to steady himself, and he walked back into the kitchen.

Edward was holding his gun but he didn't raise it, hoping the intruder would shoot him, _dead_. But there was no one in the apartment, everything was as it should have been, that was, unless the decapitated head sitting on his kitchen counter could be counted as _something_. Edward wasn't sure if he was imagining the head, he was drunk, the world wasn't quite right, and maybe, he had imagined the door opening and closing. It was hard to tell, Edward had hallucinated before, from the drugs, from starvation, from deprecation, seeing things that were not there, _terrible things_.

Edward was going to ignore it, the voice in his head was screaming at him, _just shoot yourself_. But the blood from the head was dripping onto the floor, every drop resonating inside Edward's head, echoing. The sound was irritating, _incessant_ , and Edward could feel the sickness in his stomach. It wasn't long before the sickness swelled, hot like iron, Edward vomiting into the kitchen sink, crumbling to the floor. He couldn't get back up, his leg was numb from the liquor and he had let go of the gun on the counter. So Edward just sat there, breathing through his mouth. There was a ringing in his ears, and the voice. _I don't care how you do it, just do it_. But Edward couldn't stand, his leg was too heavy, everything was too heavy. Edward thought about the glass, scattered across the floor, but he couldn't reach the glass, not a single shard.

And the head, the head was staring at him. The expression of the face was frozen in perpetual horror. Its eyes were missing, crying tears of blood, the mouth twisted into a hideous grimace. Edward couldn't look away, fearing that he had lost the last of his sanity, and tried to push himself back up against the cabinets. But Edward became motionless when the head turned, slowly, watching him with its empty eye sockets, _laughing_ , "He's coming for you."

Edward felt cold in his spine, his heart skipping a beat, " _No_."

The head was still laughing, sneering at Edward through its teeth, "He's gonna rip off your arm and feed it to his dogs." The head stopped laughing, its expression sinister and sick, "He's saving your leg for himself." And the head laughed, mockingly, "He's gonna make you cut if off with a razor blade, just like the other one, _with your bare hands_."

Edward was holding his hands over his ears, having shut his eyes when the head began to speak, "You're not real, _you are not real_."

The head was still smiling, "I'm real Edward. And I know what you did, _I know_. They're gonna tear you apart, and he's gonna _eat_ you."

The fear had taken ahold of Edward, he was shaking, because he was _afraid_. He kept trying to tell himself that it was just the anxiety, the PTSD, but the world was caving in, dissolving around him. That was when the panic started, like he was having a heart attack, his heart beating through his chest. Edward gripped his chest, trying to calm himself, trying to breathe, but it was in vain. It was not Edward's first thought to reach for his gun, the time had passed, because Edward was capsizing. And when Edward did find his way to his feet, he stumbled towards the phone, ultimately dropping the receiver because of the uncontrollable shaking of his hands. Edward fell to his knees, collecting the phone, dialing with great difficulty, the numbers indistinct. Thinking that he had finally dialed the right number, Edward put the receiver to his ear, ringing, ringing, ringing, and a voice, his brother's voice, prerecorded. Edward listened to the machine, to Alphonse, asking him to leave a message.

Edward just breathed into the phone, his eyes shut, his teeth bared, trying to find a semblance of composure. But by the time that Alphonse's voice had faded, Edward screamed, throwing the receiver across the room. Alphonse's wedding was tomorrow, he wasn't home, and Edward knew that. But panic was a powerful feeling, like he was suffocating, breathing but suffocating, sweating even though he was cold. Edward couldn't think, he wasn't thinking straight, the words reeling inside his head _, somebody fucking help me_. So Edward did the only other thing that he could think of, he walked into the bathroom, took a needle, a vial full of god knows what, and injected it into his eye. The onset was sudden, the calm unexpected, delirium bleeding into his brain. Edward fell back against the wall, his head hanging, his breathing slowing, quieting his heart. Edward could feel his eye tearing, from the needle, and he wiped his eye, awkwardly, dropping his hand. That was when his legs gave out and he slid to the floor, resting there, numb in his head, but _calm_. He rested his head on the edge of the bath, closing his eyes, allowing himself to slip away.

Edward wasn't sure how long he had been lying on the bathroom floor, and at some point, he recalled hearing the phone ring, but that had been a while ago. Edward wasn't awake but somewhere in between, fading in and out, unable to move. His blood felt ice cold, but his insides felt warm, his mouth dry. Edward tried to swallow, but he couldn't, he didn't have that kind of control, conscious of an uncontrollable thirst. Edward tried to wipe at his mouth, but his hand never moved, stationary. It was only when Edward was able to open his eyes, if only for a moment, that he realized that he was bleeding from his mouth. There was a pool of blood on the floor against the tub, red running down the side of the cast, smeared across the rim, staining his skin. Edward should have felt something, but he felt _nothing_ , closing his eyes, and noting, distantly, that he couldn't see out of his eye. The brief consciousness that Edward was experiencing didn't last long, though, and Edward didn't fight it, couldn't fight it, he just let go.

For a time, there was silence, until Edward heard his name. He could feel pressure, in his chest, on his heart. He felt cold now, just cold, in his brain, in his veins. But the pressure was unrelenting, pain now, something splitting beneath his breast. But he couldn't open his eyes, he was too cold, feeling as though he were drowning. And there was a voice, the one that was calling his name, "C'mon, Ed, breathe." The pressure was violent, tearing through him, a crack, a snap, pressure bearing down upon him. Again, "Fuck, Ed, _breathe_. Fucking _breathe_." Edward felt pain, sharp as it was sudden, ripping through his ribcage. Edward heard his name, one last time, and he took a breath. It was more of a gasp, shallow, soft, the air burning in his lungs like he was on fire.

For a moment, Edward did nothing. It took every part of him just to breathe, it was exhausting, like he couldn't get enough air. His chest felt like stone, solid, heavy like lead, crushing him. Edward was trying to speak, but the words were muddled, misshapen. He tried to open his eyes, but it hurt too much, not just inside his head, but in his heart. He tried to reach for something, someone taking his hand and holding it. Edward acknowledged that he was lying on the floor, no longer leaning against the tub, and he spoke again, his voice weak "Alphonse."

The voice answered him, quietly, "It's OK, Ed."

Edward let his head roll to the side, resting there, _breathing_. He tried to grip onto whomever was holding his hand, but his hand felt weak, his fingers numb. And for a moment, Edward felt like he couldn't breathe, gasping, his chest all but caving in, _in pain_. There was a pain in his chest, like a knife, like pins and needles. Edward coughed, rasping, his voice hoarse, whispering, "I'm sorry, Alphonse."

The grip on Edward's hand tightened, "I know."

Edward tried to move, to sit up, but he fell back, a hand upon his chest, keeping him still, "You need to rest, Ed. Just lay here for a while, it's Ok."

Edward let out a breath, burdensome, his eyes opening. But Edward couldn't see, everything was blurry, a distortion. His eyes were heavy, and Edward closed them, breathing in, exhaling, "I'm sorry," breathing in, exhaling, "I'm sorry," breathing in, exhaling, " _I'm sorry_." And Edward lost consciousness, his voice fading, _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

When Edward woke up, he was lying in bed, atop the sheets. His eyes had opened initially, and upon being blinded by the sun, he shut his eyes again. His head was pounding, like it was swollen, the migraine behind his eye, the pain sharp, striking. Edward placed his flesh hand over his eye, pushing back towards the socket, seeing stars, the pain ceasing, if only for a moment. Edward dragged his hand down his face, the ache resuming, resting his hand on his jaw, his teeth tight, throbbing. Edward rubbed his mouth, drawling his lips, revealing his teeth, tender to the touch. His gums were bloated, blistering, his teeth cutting through them, bleeding. Edward dropped his hand, feeling blood between his fingers, grimacing.

There was a voice, speaking words that Edward didn't understand, and a pause, Edward opening his eyes upon hearing his name, " _Ed_." The sound made Edward feel nauseous, his stomach twisting into a knot, the sensation almost unbearable. The wave passed, nonetheless, and the voice spoke again, "Are you awake."

Edward was looking at Adam, at least, he thought that it was Adam, _it sounded like Adam_. The world was still misleading, melding into a continuous and monotonous blur. Edward tried to speak, but the words were incomprehensible, Edward swallowing, and speaking again, "Adam." It was then, when Edward regained some sort of consciousness, that Edward realized that he didn't know where he was, unknowing of how he had gotten there or what had happened. Edward sat up, suddenly, his chest cracking, his hand driving down on his breast. But Edward couldn't reach the pain, he couldn't pull it away, because it was underneath his skin. His heart was beating, violently, his breathing becoming heavy, exhausting him. _Panic_ , he could feel the panic rising, surging in his throat, _help me, fucking help me._

Adam stood, trying to push Edward back onto the bed, "Jesus Christ, _Ed_." But Edward pulled away from Adam, pushing his hands away. Edward was only hurting himself, so Adam grabbed Ed's arm, holding fast. Adam couldn't let Edward get out of control, and thinking that he had only one option, he spoke, "Ed, you need to calm down, it's OK." Adam placed his hand on Edward's back, trying to comfort him, Edward struggling to catch his breath, _suffocating_. Adam didn't know what he was doing, or if he should be doing anything at all. Edward was a mess, Adam unsure of what exactly had sent Ed spiraling out of control. He had never seen Edward so distressed, so _frightened._ But Adam was only human, with human empathy, sympathy, and Adam embraced Edward. At first, Edward tried to withdraw, but he was worn, weary, relenting, resting his head on Adam's shoulder. The change was in Edward was immediate, his panic turning into pain, and he began to weep.

Adam had never heard such a terrible sound, not in the whole of his life, as Edward's weeping. Edward would take a breath, baring his teeth, seething, as though he were in pain, only to release it. It was like Edward was trying to cry, but he didn't know how, like he was sobbing, but he was really trying to scream. Adam was holding Edward's head, allowing him to rest, knowing that this was only a small part of Edward's pain. Adam knew that Edward kept things to himself, he let things fester, _in shame_. There was nothing shameful about being in pain, but Edward let it eat him alive, piece by piece, down to the bone. And if Edward's life could be equated to an infection, Ed would let the fever kill him, never bandaging the wound, death by poison. Because it didn't take much to break a man, just five pounds of pressure, and that was all.

It wasn't long before Edward pulled away, his expression falling, flat lining. Edward was sitting next to Adam, his shoulders sagging, his braid a tangled mess. Edward was still breathing heavily, with great strain, but the panic had dissipated, leaving him dispassionate. Edward looked ashamed, then, his brow drawn, grimacing. Adam touched Edward's shoulder, speaking softly, "I'm going to get you some water," and as a second thought, "where is your gun, Ed?"

Edward didn't look up, his voice low, "In the kitchen."

Adam turned and walked into the kitchen. The gun was on the counter, ready to fire, with bloody sickness lingering in the sink. Adam picked up the gun, locking the safety, and removing the ammunition. Adam put the cartilage in his pocket, the gun in his belt, his eyes never leaving the sink. The sight was worrisome, _to say the least_. A part of Adam knew that Edward was sick, something that he kept hidden, not like his arm and leg, something else, something excessive. But Adam couldn't deal with that now, he had to get Edward to drink something, to eat something, he was dehydrated, in need of substance. Adam took a glass, filled it with water, and walked back into the bedroom. Edward hadn't moved, he was staring at the floor, despondent. Adam handed Edward the glass, Edward reluctantly accepting it, drinking it, Adam taking back the glass. Edward wouldn't make eye contact, Adam kneeling down, and looking up at Edward, "You need to eat something, and you should probably drink some more water. Are you listening to me, Ed?"

Edward still wouldn't look at Adam, "I'm OK."

Adam frowned, something paternal kicking in, "You are not _OK_ , Ed. Your heart stopped, as in, you were not _breathing_." Edward looked away, Adam standing, "You need to go to the hospital. I should have taken you, but," Adam paused, "they would have tried to resuscitate you, and that would have been," another pause, Adam's expression downturned, " _horrible_." Adam felt himself digress, but he continued, his voice impartial, "You're lucky to be alive."

And Edward laughed, through his teeth, the sound cynical, sarcastic. The contemptuousness was sudden, and as quickly as the sensation had surfaced, it died, disappearing.

Adam crossed his arms over his chest, trying to show authority, like he had some kind of control over Edward, "I'm not leaving, Ed. So either you go to the hospital, or you go see your brother." Edward looked up, something wanton in his eyes, but Adam ignored it, "Talk to Alphonse, ask him if you can stay in Resembool for a while. I know that things didn't end well, but Alphonse will understand, he will take care of you. You're his brother, Ed, he loves you."

Edward was whispering, with sorrow, a sadness, "Alphonse doesn't love me."

Adam was literally taken aback, "What?"

And again, Edward repeated himself, "Alphonse doesn't _love_ me." Adam was about to speak, to deny the statement, but Edward interrupted him, "You don't know me. You don't know what I did to him, what I've _done_." Edward swallowed, aware that he had said too much, or not enough, he wasn't sure. Edward brought his hand to his mouth, dragging his hand across his teeth, still bleeding. Edward tried to stand, but he felt lightheaded, and he sat back down. He sighed, then, overcome, "Just leave."

Edward made Adam feel heartbroken, because Ed was disillusioned, because he was _sad_. And Adam knew that he couldn't let Edward decide what to do, that would be a mistake, because Edward would do nothing, or worse, _something_. Edward didn't need a gun, he had proven that, but he didn't need drugs either. If Edward wanted out, he was going to get out, no matter what. So Adam made up his mind, his words a statement, somewhat of a command, "I will drive you to Resembool, and you will make things right with Al."

Adam was afraid of the consequences of demanding something from Edward. For a moment, Adam thought that Edward was going to challenge him, but Edward eventually looked away, surrendering. Adam helped Edward pack a bag, made him drink another glass of water, and walked Ed out to the car. The drive from Central to Resembool was at least two hours, and they were spent in silence. Adam didn't know what to say, and Edward wasn't listening, anyways, he was drifting in and out, conscious, unconscious. Adam let Edward sleep, Ed was exhausted, _and sick_. Soon they would be in Resembool and everything would be OK, at least, that was what Adam tried to tell himself.


	12. it was still October pt4

Syphon

Chapter 12: it was still October pt. 4

Adam knew something was wrong, it wasn't immediate, but slow to surface. Edward had left his house, desperate, feeling displaced, his depression distinct. Edward was hard to read, his emotions seemingly inconsistent, intermittent at best. Edward would feel nothing, then something, _something horrible_ , Edward unable to control it. Adam was painfully aware of this, as Edward had many impulses, a sharp turn of his head, and a facial tick, one where Ed would shut his eyes, like he was in pain, only to open them. _And his teeth_. Edward would clench his teeth, grinding them, his jaw pulling to the side, his hand unconsciously trying to ease the pain. The sound was insufferable, screaming like, Adam could taste the screeching, like metal in his mouth.

But what had worried Adam, was what his wife had to say about Edward. When Edward left, Kate turned to Adam, her words spoken with concern, but in preservation, "There is something _wrong_ with him." Emphasis had been placed on _wrong_ , because there _was_ something wrong with Edward, something that no one could see. It was then that Kate, who was upset, informed Adam that Edward was not welcome in their home. Adam tried to defend Edward, he was harmless, hopeless, but Kate was unimpressed. Edward was a broken man, and that made Kate uncomfortable. And maybe, Adam had become blind to Edward's behavior. His depression had become normal, his drug abuse was normal, withdrawal was normal, deprecation, _normal_. And maybe, Adam had become complacent, Edward complacent, because Edward wouldn't change and Adam couldn't change him.

Adam had been only mildly concerned, it was normal for Edward to act strange, ill at ease. But it wasn't until the next morning, and even a couple of hours after that, that Adam started to worry. Adam arrived in Central at six thirty, half an hour before clocking in. Edward, on the other hand, would arrive somewhere between eight and nine o'clock, hours after his presence was required. Edward was always late, and that, if anything, Adam knew for sure. But the hours passed, slowly, Adam watching the clock, quarter past, half past, hour after hour. It was ten o'clock when Adam picked up the phone, deciding that he was going to call Edward. Of course, Edward didn't answer. Adam didn't think that he would, he was probably hung over, and that he would show up, _eventually_.

Adam had gone back to work, then, filing paperwork, reports, collecting information, speaking with the coroner. Adam was careful to omit some things from the report, Edward had been adamant, and it wasn't abnormal for Edward to practice insubordination. Adam had seen it, many times, _defiance_. It was hard to imagine, especially from Edward, in his despondency, to contest. The consequences, however, Edward would accept. Adam had seen the Major General strike Edward, more than once, because if he beat Edward down enough, he would listen. Adam didn't understand why the military was so cruel to Ed, he was an asset, one of their most intelligent members. That was, until Edward mentioned something about his contract, Edward had been manic, speaking out of context. The words were involuntary, heavy with regret, confirming Adam's suspicion that Edward was indebted to the military. There was no reason for Edward to be there, he was strung out, beaten down, broken. Edward didn't need discipline, he needed help, but no one was going to help him.

Adam had forgotten about his concern at some point, he was exhausted, _he had almost died_. He had been lost in thought, thinking about the boy, acquiring questions that only Edward could answer, about the monster, about alchemy. And when Adam looked at the time, it was almost four. Initially, Adam felt _fear_ , in his spine, acknowledging that Edward had never shown up. Adam left, then, driving to Edward's apartment, running red lights, cutting through traffic. Adam didn't even park, he just pulled up to the building, shutting the car off, and heading inside. Adam knocked, once, twice, and when he heard nothing, no movement, he kicked the door in. The door slammed back into the wall, the knob piercing the drywall, and Adam walked inside. The apartment was hot, Adam turning off the heat, looking around. The light in the kitchen was on, casting shadows upon shards of glass, shattered across the floor, and the phone, smashed, half way across the room.

It was not Adam's first thought, or even his second, that there had been an intruder. Adam had been to Edward's apartment before, the phone, or the glass, those things didn't deter him. It was normal for Edward to lose his shit, if not _temporarily_. Edward's apartment was always in a state of disarray, bottles on the counter, needles on the table, old needles, new needles. Adam would pick through them when Edward wasn't ready to leave, and or, still laying on the couch hungover. Edward never said anything about it, so Adam continued to do it, hoping that he was preventing something much worse from happening. Adam knew that it didn't really matter, he was just trying to stop Edward from doing something permanent, but Edward would always find a way. Edward was all about _permanence_.

Adam went into the bedroom first, finding nothing, knowing that he would find nothing. Edward never slept in his bed, at least, Adam had never found him there. Adam's next inclination was the bathroom, he had found Edward in the tub once before, fucked up, sitting upright, talking to himself. But Adam wasn't relieved by what he found in the bathroom, he was horrified, because Edward was lying against the tub, motionless, bleeding from his mouth. For a moment Adam didn't move, he was in shock. He was too afraid to touch Edward, to see if he was alive, because he might feel cold, he might be _dead_. Adam walked over to Ed, hesitantly, who was cold, and lowered him to the floor. Adam checked Edward's pulse, finding nothing, frightened that he had found nothing. Adam thought to call an ambulance, or take Ed to the hospital, but he knew what would happen. They would try to defibrillate him, his metal parts melting, melding to his skin, and that would be _gruesome_ , to say the least.

So Adam, knowing what he had to do, adrenaline in his veins, placed his hands on Edward's chest. Adam started with compressions, one, two, three, the plate on Edward's chest an obstruction. One, two, three, "C'mon, Ed, breathe." But Edward didn't breathe, he remained still, his lips blue. Again, one, two, three, Adam applying more pressure, something giving way. There was a crack, Adam seething, "Fuck, Ed, _breathe_. Fucking _breathe_." There was a horrendous _snap_ , Adam undeterred, another compression, something collapsing inside Edward's chest. But Adam didn't stop, and maybe he should have, but Edward took a breath, suddenly, gasping for air.

It took a few minutes for the color to return to Edward's lips, but Ed still looked sick, sallow in his skin, sweating. Edward tried to open his eyes, but he shut them, suddenly, blinded by the light. The whites of his eyes were red, bloody, bleeding into the skin underneath, purple now, like a bruise. The redness was running down his cheek, only on the right, radiating from the pin prick, now a violent stain to his skin. And in his teeth, blood, unrelenting, smeared down his neck, soaking into his shirt. And without hesitation, Edward tried to reach for something, someone, Adam taking his hand. But Edward's grip was weak, almost nonexistent, Adam holding fast. They remained there, together, for over an hour, until Edward spoke, " _Alphonse_."

Adam didn't know what to say, Edward was delirious, and it wasn't Adam's place to say anything, anyways. Adam couldn't pretend to be Alphonse, because that would be wrong, so Adam decided, then, on something ambiguous and indirect, "It's Ok, Ed."

Adam could feel Edward trying to grip onto his hand, "I'm sorry, Alphonse."

Something terrible ran through Adam at the sound of the words. Edward's voice was rough, from stress, dry from dehydration, sadness the true strain. Adam clutched Edward's hand, his grip tightening, "I know." Edward tried to sit up, but Adam pushed him back down. Adam could see the bottle of painkiller on the sink, clear, unmarked, a concoction. There was no telling what was in it, nor how much Edward had taken. The meds might not have killed him, probably lack of resolve, Adam wasn't sure. But Edward continued speaking, then, _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,_ his words fading away, Edward passing out, his heart still beating.

Adam couldn't lift Edward, and at some point, Ed became coherent, or conscious, Adam taking the opportunity to get Edward to his feet. Edward, however, couldn't stand, and Adam all but carried Ed to his bedroom. Adam had never considered the weight of automail, just Edward, who was pushing a hundred and fifty pounds, _maybe_. With his automail, Edward must have weighed, easily, over two hundred pounds. Adam sat Edward down on the bed, Edward collapsing, rolling onto his side. Adam took a chair from the kitchen table, residing, then, next to Edward, waiting for him to wake up. For eight hours Adam watched Edward sleep, listening to Edward breathe, every breath like sandpaper in his throat. When Edward woke up, he was fine, until he wasn't. And even though Edward had broken down, exposing himself, Adam didn't know if Ed even acknowledged what he had done.

It was then that Adam, who was doing his best to remain in control, decided that Edward needed someone to take care of him, if only for a short time. Alphonse was the only option, and they left for Resembool, the drive spent in deafening silence. Adam didn't know if bringing Edward to see his brother was the right thing to do. The worst thing that Ed could have done, he did, the night before his brother's wedding. Edward, whether he meant to or not, was volatile, uncontrollable, like secondhand smoke, always exacerbating a situation. Adam could have taken Edward home with him, but Kate would have said _no_ , and Adam wasn't sure what Alphonse would say, either. Adam worried that Edward had burned bridges with his brother, that Alphonse might not take Edward in, and that Edward would have nowhere to go. And if Edward had nowhere to go, _that was it_ , no more Edward.

Adam, by coincidence, knew where Alphonse lived, Edward having mentioned it in passing. Alphonse had bought a couple of acres, built a house, and started a family. Alphonse and Winry, despite their age, had a young daughter together. They had put the wedding on hold until their daughter was old enough to participate, the ceremony more about family, togetherness. Edward, on the other hand, had never met Alphonse's daughter. Adam assumed that it was because of the drugs, because Edward was never sober, but it could have been something else, like how he was emotionally unstable. It was probably a mixture of the two, drugs, instability, Edward falling apart. Adam didn't know if Alphonse wanted to keep his daughter away from Ed because of his bad behavior, or because he didn't want his daughter's only memory of Edward to be a bad one, _like this_.

Adam knew that Edward's drug addiction fed from his inability to cope, because he couldn't control how he was feeling. It made Edward feel helpless, but that was only an assumption. Adam could only account for the things that he had seen, and in Edward's case, things seemed pretty clear. Adam had seen Edward's range of emotions in a matter of seconds, pain, apathy, anger, sadness. Some of Edward's emotions were reactions to other emotions, ones that Adam couldn't place with an expression, because they were ambiguous. Adam acknowledged Edward's unpredictable behavior, he had come to expect it, accept it, because he _had_ to. But Adam knew that Alphonse didn't have to consent to Edward's actions. He could say no, he did say _no_ , especially when Edward crossed the line. And how many times had Edward crossed the line, the number was _infinite_. But it wasn't always about Edward crossing the line, it was about the severity in which Edward would react, how he would react, how _violently_ he would react. Alphonse was afraid, he had every right to be. Alphonse had every right to cut Edward out of his life. But Adam knew why Edward pushed Alphonse away, it was obvious, something that Adam knew for certain. Edward didn't want Alphonse to know that he was in pain.

Alphonse didn't understand Edward's pain. Alphonse was normal, Alphonse was kind, and Alphonse was whole. Alphonse had always been whole, even when he was just a soul. There was nothing missing, he was still physical, _afraid_ , however, still able to live his life. But Alphonse didn't understand the choices that had been made on his behalf. Edward had done his best to protect Al, even from himself. Edward was only child, and maybe, Alphonse never thought of Ed that way. Edward was his big brother, he was supposed to be stronger than Al, smarter, his protector. And maybe, Alphonse had expectations that were unrealistic. Maybe, Alphonse thought that Edward had everything under control. Maybe, Alphonse thought that Edward _was_ in control. But in reality, Edward was living in chaos, crumbling.

And now, after all they had been through, Alphonse was trying to help Edward, but Edward was vindictive, Alphonse's intentions in vain. Adam didn't know why Edward had such disdain for Alphonse, but Edward's disdain never brought him any happiness, just unhappiness, _unlike his guilt_. Edward's guilt was like a black hole, consuming everything, contorting his thoughts, but that was because Edward's guilt was in control. Edward comforted himself by removing things that made him feel guilty, like Alphonse, happiness, things that _he_ wanted, things that made _him_ happy. Because if Edward were to feel something, like happiness, he would retract, feeling sadness instead, remembering _why_ he was sad. And it was as simple, and as complicated, as that.

Adam pushed his thoughts aside, then, pulling into Alphonse's driveway. Adam stopped short of the front door, shutting the car off, leaning back in his seat. Edward had fallen asleep some time ago, Adam could hear him breathing, shallow, sharp, as though his lungs were overflowing, and yet, empty. Adam didn't want to wake Edward, so Adam got out of the car and walked to the door. Adam knocked, heavily, but tentatively, certain that it was rude to wake them at such an hour, knowing that this was necessary. Edward needed his brother, he could deny it, would deny it, but in the end, Alphonse was all that Edward had left. At first, there was no answer, Adam knocking for a second time, until he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Before the door, the footsteps ceased, and slowly the door opened.


	13. it was still October pt5

Syphon

Chapter 13: it was still October pt. 5

When Alphonse opened the door, he was not smiling, and upon seeing Adam, Alphonse spoke, "What did he do." The question was a statement, Adam unable to determine exactly how Alphonse was feeling. But it was only a moment, if not seconds, before Alphonse came to a terrible realization, the words more horrific than hurt, "What did he _do_?"

Adam wasn't really sure how to respond. Adam had thought about what he would say for the last two hours, finding that, in the end, there was no polite way of answering the question. Adam didn't know if it was better to just say it, _the truth_ , to get it over with, like peeling off a scab. Maybe, the cut had healed, or the cut would bleed, but that wasn't the point. There was still poison, infection underneath, and that was what Alphonse was afraid of, _poison_. But Adam couldn't say the words, so he started with something else, something subtle, "Ed's not feeling well, he's in the car, I didn't want to wake him up." And Adam paused, his mouth moving as if he were speaking, but there was no sound. Adam sighed, "Maybe, you should sit down."

Alphonse's expression was clear, like he was going to cry, sadness in his eyes, and guilt. Alphonse stepped back, turning away, and walked back inside. The kitchen was to the left of the door, a table there, and chairs, Alphonse sitting down. Alphonse's guilt had turned to anxiousness, and he looked at Adam with regret, as Adam sat down across the table. Adam didn't know Alphonse very well, he had met him a few times, but more so, Adam knew Alphonse through Edward, because Alphonse came around occasionally to make sure that Ed was still alive. Adam rested his hands on the table, trying to make eye contact, but he looked away, "I'm not really sure how to say this, _but-_ "

Adam was cut off, though, by Winry, who walked into the room. She stopped short of the table, no doubt looking for Alphonse, "What's going on, it's four in the morning." Her expression was one of concern, which was for Alphonse, but when she looked at Adam, aggravation, "Who are you?"

Adam had never met Winry. Edward had mentioned her once, when Alphonse told Ed that he was getting married, and then, under his breath, _fuck Winry._ Winry hated Edward, like, on a scale from one to ten, _ten_ being absolute and utter loathing, Winry was somewhere between ripping out Edward's guts and beating him to death with a hammer. At least, that was Adam's interpretation of the conversation. Adam assumed that Winry's hatred towards Edward was on Alphonse's behalf, because Edward was unstable, because Edward had done bad things. But there was something personal about her hate, matched only by the revulsion in Edward's voice, _I fucking hate her._

Winry crossed her arms over her chest, frowning, then, "I asked you a question."

Adam was about to speak, but Alphonse stood, his voice weary, "This is Adam," and he paused, "Edward's partner."

At the sound of Edward's name, Winry scowled, "What did he do, _kill himself_."

Alphonse flinched upon hearing the words, and he frowned, shaking his head, "Winry, _don't_."

"Why else would he be here, Alphonse?" Winry looked at Adam, "Are you here to tell us that Ed is no longer an insufferable drug addict, or that he gave up drinking?" Winry shifted her gaze towards Alphonse, "Or maybe, he's ready to take responsibility for you, Al, for your _mother_ , for every fucking thing that he has ever done."

Alphonse looked away, "Winry, _please_ , he's my brother. He never meant to hurt me."

Winry laughed, more of a scoff, turning her attention back towards Adam, "So what did he do?"

Adam was uncomfortable, that was an understatement, but Adam forced himself to speak, "I don't know what happened, but when I got to Edward's apartment, he wasn't breathing." Alphonse turned away, feeling overwhelmed, and sat down, placing his head in his hands. Adam continued then, "I performed CPR, and," Adam swallowed, "I broke his ribs, and I think I fucked up his arm. I don't know, he's having trouble breathing." Alphonse hadn't moved, he was breathing into his hands, trying to remain calm, but Adam wasn't finished, "He's sick, Alphonse."

Winry was still standing, unamused, "Of course he's _sick_."

Adam felt the need to correct himself, "No, I mean, he's sick, like cancer, or something."

Alphonse looked up, it was sudden, his concern evident, " _What_?"

Adam swallowed, again, the lump in his throat swelling, "He's vomiting blood, I saw it in the sink." And Adam sighed, "I think that he's been sick for a long time, he just never said anything."

Alphonse had started to cry, quietly, feeling guilty, as though he could have done better. He was holding his hand over his mouth, trying to stifle a sob, "OK." And Alphonse stood, speaking solely to Adam, "We have an extra room, Ed can stay here."

Winry opened her mouth as if to protest, but Alphonse shook his head. Winry turned, furious, storming out of the room. Adam also stood, following Alphonse to the door, "He doesn't remember, but, he asked for you, Alphonse."

Alphonse turned towards Adam, "He did?"

Adam frowned, "Ed thought that I was you, and he just kept apologizing, over and over again. I didn't say anything, it wasn't my place." Adam tried to sound impartial, but he sounded predisposed, "He's in so much pain, Alphonse."

Alphonse couldn't match Adam's stare, and feeling as though he was going to cry, he turned back towards the door, "I know."

Adam followed Alphonse out to the car. Adam had shut the car off, leaving the windows down, Edward still unconscious in the front seat. Adam grabbed Edward's bag from the back seat, swinging it over his shoulder, and opening the passenger's side door. Alphonse reached into the car and took hold of Edward's shoulder, shaking him gently, "Ed, wake up." There was no response, and Alphonse took his hand and rested it on Edward's cheek, " _Ed_."

Edward's reaction was slow, but he reached for Alphonse's hand, mumbling, "Alphonse."

Alphonse was rubbing Edward's cheek, "Yeah, its Alphonse, it's OK." Alphonse pulled Edward's hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear, "Can you stand, Ed."

It took a moment for Edward to respond, "Yeah."

Edward was only partially out of the car when his legs gave out, but Alphonse was there to catch him, as was Adam, and they helped Edward inside. When they made it to the bedroom, Edward sat down on the bed, Alphonse sitting next to him. Alphonse looked up at Adam, trying to smile, "Thank you." And thinking that a simple _thank you_ wasn't enough, Alphonse spoke, "I don't know how to thank you. You've done so much."

Adam offered reassurance, smiling in return, it was small, but with sentiment, "You don't have to thank me. Ed has saved my ass more than once, if anything, I still owe him."

Adam turned to leave, but he stopped when Edward grabbed his arm. Edward was looking at Adam, but he didn't speak, and as suddenly as he grabbed Adam's arm, he released it. Adam wasn't sure of his own expression, he felt sadness, but consolation, Edward's actions speaking for themselves. And Adam spoke, one last time, "I know, Ed."

And Adam left, leaving Edward and Alphonse alone.

Alphonse didn't speak for a moment, trying to steady himself, and when he did, his voice was trembling, "Are you going to talk to me, Ed?" Alphonse looked at Edward, who was staring at the floor, Al taking Edward's hand, "Talk to me, Ed. Let me help you."

Edward didn't look up, "I'm sorry."

Alphonse swallowed, trying to stifle a sob, "You don't have to apologize to me, Ed. Just, _talk_ to me."

Edward looked up at Alphonse, who was weeping, and Edward spoke, "I fucked up, Al. God, I _fucked_ up _._ " Edward was rubbing his jaw unconsciously, grimacing, "I, _we_ , could have had a better life if I," and Edward paused, "hadn't been so fucking stupid." Edward tried to pull his hand away, but he stopped himself, "I'm sorry, Al, I'm so fucking sorry."

"It's OK, Ed." Alphonse felt Edward try to pull away, his grip tightening, "I know that I blamed you, for mom, dad, _everything_ , but it wasn't your fault. When mom died, you ran away, and things got out of hand, but you were just trying to protect me. I know that now." Alphonse looked away, then, "And I know about dad, about what he did to you. I didn't know that he hit you, Ed, or that he," and Alphonse stopped speaking, unable to say the words, deciding on something else entirely, "Everyone blamed you, Ed, because you were easy to blame. _I'm sorry_."

Edward's grimace had turned into a frown, his teeth tight, "I should have done better."

Alphonse sighed, "You were twelve, Ed. You didn't know any better."

Edward stopped rubbing his jaw, swollen, and started rubbing his eye, inflammation, itching now, "I wasn't twelve when I left you, I knew better, I was just so fucked up, Al, and _you_. You reminded me of my mistakes, all of the things that I did wrong, and _I_. I couldn't even face you, knowing what I had done. I was so fucking ashamed, Al, because I did bad things, because I couldn't fix you."

"You _fixed_ me, Ed." And Alphonse's voice trailed off, something terrible swelling up inside him, "How did you do it?"

Edward felt his heart skip a beat, his breathing becoming more burdensome, "I told you, Al, I couldn't fix you." Panic, panic engorging his insides, "I didn't know how, and I just," panic, panic, panic, " _I just_ ," he could hear his heart beat, hemorrhaging, "I couldn't take it anymore."

Alphonse already knew the answer, he had always known. He didn't speak, though, he let Edward fight with the words, because Edward needed to speak them, out loud, so he could let them go. "I don't know what I was thinking, I _wasn't_ thinking. It was right in front of me, Al, and I took it, I didn't even think about it, _I just_ ," and Edward shut his mouth. Edward ran his hand down his face, tiredness, his shoulders sagging, weariness, "If the military ever finds out what I did, they'll fucking hang me, Al, they'll fucking _hang_ me."

Alphonse didn't need to hear anymore, he knew what Edward had done, he knew about the stone. Alphonse was concerned, though, when Edward took a breath, suddenly, without warning, gasping. Alphonse placed his hand on Edward's chest, he could feel the grinding of metal and bone beneath his fingers, grinding, grinding, grinding. Edward was gripping Alphonse's hand, applying pressure, pushing against his breast. Alphonse didn't know what to say, so he started with something easy, something soft, "I know that you're in pain, Ed."

Edward closed his eyes, wincing, "No, I'm Ok."

Alphonse spoke again, more adamantly, "Your arm and your leg, I know that they hurt you, but you never told me, Ed. I could have helped you, but you wouldn't let me." Alphonse turned his head, taking a breath, only to face his brother, weeping at the sight of him, "Are you sick, Ed?"

Edward's expression didn't change, but Alphonse could see the sickness, it was in his eyes, underneath his skin. Edward looked away, unable to match Alphonse's stare, as though Alphonse could see through him. Edward's grip tightened, he took a breath, closing his eyes, seething, " _Yes_."

"How long?"

Edward's voice was low, "Almost fifteen years." Edward wiped his eyes, he was sweating again, cold again, "I'm cold, Al."

"We're going to find you a doctor, Ed. And we're going to _fix_ this."

Edward pulled Alphonse's hand away from his chest, "You can't fix this, Al, nobody can fix this."

Alphonse felt defeat, desperation dragging down his words, "Don't say that, Ed."

"This was the price, I knew the price."

Alphonse felt his brow draw, "Ed, what are you talking about? You used the stone, right? It takes thousands of souls to make the stone, the price was already paid, Ed."

There was a change in Edward's expression, certainty, an inevitability. Edward spoke the words, but they meant nothing because they were in vain, "There is no such thing as equivalent exchange. Everything comes at a price, Al, it's just a matter of how much you're willing to pay."

Alphonse was cold in his chest, the onset sudden, "What did you give, Ed?" And as a second thought, "What did _he_ take?" Alphonse couldn't remember what happened when he crossed the gate, he lost everything, and maybe, that was the price. But everyone knew about the demon, hoofs and horns, who sat upon a throne before the gate. Alphonse knew, even if he couldn't remember, that Edward had met the demon, not once, but twice. The first time, Edward gave half of himself away, but if Edward hadn't given the rest of himself to the gate, what had the demon taken, and how much. Alphonse was afraid of the answer, the _truth_ , because the truth was never kind, but cruel.

Edward had become despondent, then, Alphonse urging him to continue, and Edward spoke, "I'm bleeding to death, Al." Edward's expression changed, twisting, with anguish, like he was in agony, "I feel like I'm drowning, like my lungs are full of water, but its _blood_. I'm drowning in my own fucking blood, Al, I'm fucking _drowning_." Edward released a breath, heavy, heaving, "I should feel something, but I feel nothing, because _he_ took that, too." Edward was choking on a sob, but he wasn't weeping, he was angry, not at the demon, but at himself, "And I don't even know if that's true. Sometimes I think that _he_ didn't take anything, and that maybe, I've always been that way. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel, but I know that I'm not supposed to feel this way. There is something wrong with me," and Edward grabbed Alphonse's shirt, wrenching him forward, "what the _fuck_ is wrong with me?"

"Ed-"

But Edward cut Alphonse off, "I try to smother out the feeling, like I'll feel whole again, but I never felt whole to begin with. I'm so fucking empty inside, but there's something eating away at me, and I feel hungry, but nothing makes me full." Edward felt like he was losing control, but he continued, uncontrollably, "There is something inside me, a feeling, but I can't place it, but I know that it's rotting inside my stomach. I felt it when mom died, when I went to war, when I killed all those fucking people, and it's like I'm satisfied, but I feel sick. And no matter what I do, what pills I take, it's still there, like it's in my fucking blood."

"Ed, it's Ok."

Edward was desperate, he could hear it in his voice, but he couldn't stop the words. They were pouring from his lips, with panic, like poison, "You have to help me, Al. You have to fucking _help_ me."

Alphonse had taken a hold of Edward's hands, trying to pry Ed's fingers from his shirt, "It's going to be OK, Ed. I'm going to help you." And when Edward didn't let go, Alphonse looked Edward in the eyes, exhibiting authority, "You need to let go, Ed, you're hurting me."

Edward retraced his hands, violently, holding them in his lap. He stood, then, unexpectedly, moving towards end of the bed. Edward sat back down, satisfied with the space between them, and he spoke, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know, Ed."

Edward was grimacing, the words leaving a metallic taste in his mouth, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Alphonse stood, taking a blanket, and wrapping it around Edward, who was shaking, "I know, Ed. _I know_." And Alphonse sat down next to his brother, embracing him, "It's going to be OK."

 _Everything is going to be OK._


	14. October is a very long month

Syphon

Chapter 14: October is a very long month

Edward was ashamed of himself, but it was dissimilar shame, different, all the while unchanging. It was not for the things that he had already done, which was an encompassing shame, lingering, like smoke, but for a single moment of hysteria. Hysteria was deeply provocative, and suggestive, however, amassing. It was never a single moment, just an accumulation, growing, like vines, eventually smothering itself out. Hysteria was like panic, but panic was sudden, singular. But hysteria was small, like a seed, sprouting, but death was forthcoming, because the roots had become rotten. Root rot, they call it, death in the midst of life. Desperation was the cornerstone of hysteria, because desperation fed fear, not the greatest of fears, but the smallest insecurities. There was weakness in all things, even impenetrable things. A nick, or even a crack, could crumble mountains, just as a scratch could rust through metal.

Edward knew why he did bad things. There used to be a crack, but it had become a rift, wrenching itself apart. Edward tried to pull himself back together, but there was nothing strong enough to suture the split, the fissure, the fracture, because it was a wound. A wound was only as strong as the host, and once the wound was rotten, there was only one option. Amputation. Edward never cared for his cuts, for his bruises, preferring to leave them be, as though they would resolve themselves. There was no real resolution, though, just prolonging, as the infection set in. A fever would follow, but the fever was immaterial, just like the wound, and no medicine in the world could control it. Not the morphine, or the steroids, the alcohol, nor the needle, nothing. And at some point, Edward would have to look at himself in the mirror, just to acknowledge his reflection, knowing that there was no cure, _not for this_.

In a moment of weakness, Edward latched onto Alphonse. Edward knew that it wasn't weakness, but what was left of his humanity, and his desperation, because he was ultimately human. Alphonse didn't say anything, he just let the conversation go. Edward couldn't control the words, he had been hysterical, and now, something like regret was settling inside his stomach. Edward was still lying in bed, Alphonse had left a little while ago, leaving the door open, occasionally walking by to check on him. Edward had lost track of time, he wasn't even sure of how he had gotten there, to Alphonse's house, to the bed, it was all a blur. He was watching the clock, it was almost a quarter to twelve, time passing in hour increments. Edward thought about getting out of bed, but he lacked the physical strength, he felt tired, heavy, like he couldn't sustain his own weight. Edward's resolve was weak, surrendering to something much stronger, like depression, and despair, so Edward remained in bed, awake, but unresponsive.

Alphonse had called a doctor, Edward had overheard the conversation through the door. His ribs were broken, the plate on his chest was crushing his lungs, and he couldn't breathe. But the doctor was out of town, and Edward was alive, so he had to wait until the end of the week. By then, Edward would be a mess. There were no drugs in Alphonse's house, nor was there a decent drug trade in Resembool, so Edward would have to withdraw. He couldn't leave, he had to stay, because leaving would only result in something far more gruesome, far more grotesque, than painkillers. And besides that, Alphonse was watching him, Alphonse couldn't _trust_ him, because Edward tried to kill himself. It was the first thing that Alphonse mentioned to the doctor, _Edward took too many painkillers, he was trying to kill himself, and I don't know what to do_. The doctor gave Alphonse a small set of instructions, which he relayed back to Edward, that Edward wasn't allowed to be left alone, no sharp objects, no medications, check his breathing, his heart rate. The most important thing, if anything, was that Edward was supposed to rest, stress might aggravate his condition, and that was all.

Edward knew what he had done, he had gone home with the sole purpose of blowing his brains out. But he couldn't remember what went wrong, he was confused, the events convoluted. The only thing that he knew for sure, with certainty, was that he was still alive. Edward did not regret his decision, it was his choice, and it was his life to take. And yet, Edward wanted to feel something, anything, but there was something in his brain disallowing him to feel, to really _feel_ something. That was, until Edward heard the voice in his head, _he's not looking, take off your leg, let it bleed._ Edward sat up, stood up, and walked out of the room.

After the initial shock had worn off, anger aside, Winry had relented to helping Edward, removing some screws, loosening some bolts, releasing some of the pressure on his chest. Things had been strained between Edward and Winry for a long time, and it wasn't Winry's fault, more so Edward's, because he was an asshole. Winry voluntarily helped Edward with his automail, she was a mechanic, and the doctors that installed his arm and leg disappeared after the operation. Winry traveled to Central to repair Edward's automail after the war, after Edward purposefully severed the wires, after he ripped out the siphons and drained the oil, leaving the metal to rust. Winry had been kind to him, she had always been kind, because she liked Ed, because she wanted to be with him. But Edward was fucked up from the war, from pain, from death, and when Winry tried to touch him, he reacted violently, just like he always did. Edward didn't hit Winry, he pushed her away, Winry falling to the floor, Edward seething, malicious words escaping his mouth. Edward didn't apologize, he walked away, leaving her there, weeping. Edward was angry, strung out, manic, malevolent. He needed to project his anger, his agony, at someone, and Winry just happened to be standing there. Edward didn't hate Winry, just himself, because he had hurt her.

But that had been years ago, and Winry had already left for the venue, Alphonse staying behind, because Edward was there, because Al had to watch him. Alphonse was in the kitchen, half dressed, wingtips, suspenders. Alphonse looked up when he noticed Edward, trying to smile, however, failing, "Ed, I was just about to check on you."

Edward was having trouble looking Alphonse in the eye, "I was, _I was just_ ," but he couldn't form the words. Edward couldn't tell Alphonse about the voice in his head, his own voice, trying to rip himself to shreds. Edward closed his eyes, took a breath, and grimaced, "When are you leaving."

Alphonse frowned, " _We_ are leaving in an hour."

Edward swallowed, nodding in understanding, but it was really in compliance. Edward wasn't going to fight Alphonse, not now, he didn't have the strength, "OK."

Alphonse had moved from the kitchen, he was standing in front of Edward, "Do you have something to wear, Ed?"

Edward shook his head, "Yes."

Edward walked back into the bedroom, to his bag, removing what little he had packed. He had brought a shirt, slacks, a cardigan, clothes that he wore to work. Edward walked into the bathroom, then, flicking the switch, brilliant, bright, Edward squinting against the light. He should have been horrified by the sight of himself, but concern was exhausting, so Edward just let it go. His eye was red, the blood vessels broken, the skin bruised, like he had a black eye. His skin was pale, his fatigue evident, his lips colorless. And when Edward removed his shirt, a bruise, black, encompassing his chest, the stain spreading, just below his jaw. For a moment, Edward felt nauseous, knowing that he had done this to himself. But he pushed the thought aside, pulling his shirt over his head, with great effort, and yanking his cardigan on. Edward was underdressed, but nothing that Alphonse owned would fit him, because Al was taller, with more mass. And before Edward left the bathroom, he looked back into the mirror, at his eye, bloody, and his neck, black, and he vomited into the toilet.

The drive to the venue wasn't very long, the destination only a few miles south. It was late afternoon, the sun intact, like it was still summer. The wedding was taking place at a farm, retired from service. The weather was still warm, the wildflowers still in bloom, the surrounding fields full of vibrant yellows and pinks. There was a small pond where the ceremony was to take place, sunset the backdrop, twinkling lights leading back to the venue, which was a barn, adorned with ribbons and lace. There was a house, just before the barn, where Alphonse parked the car. Winry was inside, getting ready, and Alphonse was in the parlor making last minute arrangements. Edward was standing outside the door, which was open, Alphonse occasionally glancing up at Ed, who was craving a cigarette. Edward wasn't sure what to do with his hands, as they were beginning to shake, and he shoved them into his pockets.

Edward was trying to distract himself by watching the cars drive by, one by one, and at some point, Edward sat down on the steps, resting his head against the railing. Edward felt out of place, but that wasn't unusual, he always felt out of place. Edward was only there because he was a burden, because he lacked self-control, because he couldn't just be happy for Alphonse. This was how everyone was going to remember him, Edward, Alphonse's problematic older brother. Anyone with eyes could see that Edward was fucking mess, he looked sick, it was almost too obvious. Suddenly, Edward was ashamed, again, thinking that he had ruined yet another phase of Alphonse's life. But that was what Edward did, he fucked things up, he showed up high, got wasted, all the while running his mouth. Edward was going to do better this time, he wasn't going to ruin Alphonse's wedding, because Al was trying to help him. Alphonse was _going_ to help him. But there wasn't much that he could do, there wasn't any alcohol and he didn't have any drugs, just an uncontrollable shaking, in his hands, his teeth, Edward clenching his jaw, tight. Edward knew that he was going to fall apart, it was only a matter of time, but he was going to hold himself together, he had to, for Alphonse.

Alphonse walked through the door, then, placing his hand on Edward's shoulder, "Are you OK, Ed?" Edward looked up, taking Alphonse's hand, finding comfort in him, but he didn't speak. Alphonse kneeled down next to Edward, "The ceremony is about to start soon," and Alphonse paused, pulling Edward's sweater across his chest, "Are you cold, Ed?"

Edward was cold, even though it was hot, but he denied it, "I'm OK."

Alphonse stood, "We should go find you a seat."

When Edward tried to stand, he faltered, but Alphonse held his arm, keeping him upright. Edward was gripping the railing, suddenly out of breath, like he couldn't breathe, and it took a moment before he could catch his breath. Alphonse was watching, concerned, and maybe, concern wasn't the right word, maybe, it was something more like terror. And when Edward felt as though he could walk, he descended the stairs, Alphonse holding fast, as they headed towards the pond. There were a decent amount of guests at the wedding, Alphonse had many acquaintances, as did Winry, old and new friends. Winry's parents were there, sitting in the front row, watching, because all eyes were on them as they walked up the aisle. Alphonse took Edward to the front of the row, there was vacant seat there, one that was reserved for Edward. Edward was Alphonse's family, it was where he belonged, opposite the aisle from the Rockbell's, one side for Alphonse's friends and family, and the other side for Winry's friends and family. But there was no one quite as disgusted by Edward's appearance as the Rockbell's, who's expressions were dour, to say the least. And no one else was more surprised by Edward's attendance than Roy and Riza, who looked surprised, or apprehensive, it was hard to tell.

Alphonse released Edward's arm when he sat down, and when he was satisfied by Edward's situation, he walked towards the gazebo, joining his best man. Alphonse was still watching Edward, like he would get up and walk away, but Edward did nothing. Edward kept tugging the collar of his shirt, trying to cover the bruise on his neck, resting his hand there, bowing his head. But the bruise was too large to cover, Edward conscious of the bruise, ashamed of it, feeling manic. Again, Edward wasn't sure of what to do with his hands, so he pulled his braid over his shoulder, anxiously trying to hide the bruise, fiddling with his split ends, then, his hands in his lap.

Edward was trying to act normal, calm, with some kind of composure, but he found that it was almost unbearable to sit still. Everyone was looking at him. Edward could feel their eyes, but he remained, no matter how much that he wanted to run. At some point, Edward looked up at Alphonse, who was talking to the priest, smiling. Alphonse was truly happy, and it made Edward feel sad, sadness in his emptiness, and then, just emptiness. And the voice, _his_ voice, echoing inside his head, _slit your throat, let yourself fucking drown_ , _just fucking do it, already._ Edward was distracted, though, by the quartet, Beethoven's fifth, and Winry, walking down the aisle. Everyone in the congregation stood, even Edward, somewhat haphazardly, as Winry took her place next to Alphonse. They said their vows, their daughter standing beside them, and they kissed, the ceremony ending. Alphonse and Winry walked away, hand in hand, heading towards the barn. Edward waited until everyone else had walked away, the usher urging him to follow, and he did, eventually, his pace slow, deliberately slow.

Edward was almost to the barn when Alphonse emerged, Alphonse exhaling, _relieved_. Edward took a breath, still misplaced, and he spoke, softly, "I'm here." Alphonse smiled, it was small, and it was sad, but he took Edward's hand, nonetheless, and led him inside.


	15. the end of October

Syphon

Chapter 15: the end of October

Inside the barn, lights, strung from corner to corner, and flowers, scattered across the floor. There were tables, center pieces, sunflowers, because Alphonse loved sunflowers, and lilies, because Winry loved lilies. The barn was fragrant, the flowers almost overwhelming, the congregation, loud, the quartet softy humming in the background. Edward was seated at Alphonse's table, Winry there, their daughter, Winry's parents, the best man, and the maid of honor. Edward was sitting between Alphonse and his best man, Mathew, a failsafe arrangement, in case things got out of hand. But things were going well, Edward hadn't spoken, preferring to keep his mouth shut. The food had been served over an hour ago, Edward unenthused by the thought of eating, but he picked at the food, regardless, Alphonse urging him to eat something. Many stories were shared, how Alphonse met Winry, when Alphonse came home to Resembool. But most of the memories were about Alphonse's daughter, Emme, when she was born, how talented she was, how beautiful.

Alphonse's daughter looked just like him, it was uncanny, but her eyes were blue, like Winry's. She was quiet, but loud, and opinionated for a little girl. And when Edward sat down, his hair slipping from his braid, long and blonde, Emme asked who he was. But those weren't her exact words, more so, _who is the pretty man_. Alphonse surprised Edward, though, by introducing him as her uncle, _this is your uncle Ed_. Emme smiled at him, at Edward, who looked horrible, and he tried to smile in return, but he couldn't, he was incapable, and he didn't want her to see his teeth, _metal._ Emme was the only one to engage him, as though Alphonse had made mention of the fact beforehand, _don't talk to Ed, just leave him be_ , forewarning, stated just below the time and date on the invitation. It was in everyone's best interest, for Edward's reputation preceded him, everyone knew that he was military, and everyone knew that he was a mess.

And for once in Edward's life, he felt like he was doing the right thing. He was present, and for Edward, that was a big deal. Edward never celebrated anything, especially after their mom died, like Alphonse's birthday, or even Christmas. Alphonse had asked Edward to come home, to be a part of his life, even if it was just for dinner, but Edward let those things slip away. Edward told himself that he was just being resentful, when in reality, he felt like he wasn't good enough for Alphonse, because Alphonse deserved better. Alphonse deserved this, the wedding, the flowers, his friends, his family. Edward was out of place there, in the light, amongst the life, the vibrant colors, he was a black hole, a scar, a memento. That was going to change, he was going to do better, _be better_. But Edward knew that this wouldn't last, he couldn't keep his shit together, not for even one second, and he would ruin this, too.

Edward was listening to the conversation, but he turned his head away when he heard his name. It was quiet, with a voice that he couldn't quite place, " _Edward_." Edward couldn't distinguish who was speaking, there were too many people, so many voices, and Edward frowned when he heard his name, again, the voice rising in intensity, " _Edward_ ," the tone mocking, malicious, " _talk to me, Edward_."

Edward felt a hand on his shoulder and he brought his attention back to the table. Alphonse was looking at him, apprehensive, his voice a whisper, "Is everything alright, Ed?"

Edward was feeling uncomfortable, like he had done something wrong, " _I just_ ," and Edward looked away, his voice soft, "I'm sorry."

Alphonse let go of Edward, dropping his hand, his attention returning to the conversation. Edward turned his attention to Mathew, who was talking, but he couldn't hear what Matt was saying. Edward could hear his name, " _Edward_ ," and again, " _Edward_ ," and an abrupt, if not violent, " _look at me_."

Edward turned his head, to the right, towards the banquet, to the head that was out of place, severed and staring at him. The head was sitting in a pool of blood, staining the linen cloth red, the blood overflowing, dripping onto the floor. The head was resting on a platter, where the meat had been, flies in his mouth, maggots for eyes. The head was smiling, sarcastic, "Look what you made me do, _Edward_ ," and the head frowned, its expression twisting upside down, laminating, " _look what you made me do_." In Edward's brain, something sunk, shifting, the panic slow, drowning out the conversation, the words, but not _his_ words, _he's gonna eat you_. Edward closed his eyes, tight, his teeth bared, and he opened them, the head grimacing, growling, "He's coming for you, Ed, _run, run, run_. If you don't, he's gonna _eat_ you."

Edward stood, then, abruptly, Alphonse watching, Edward unmoving. Edward was staring across the room, at the banquet, Edward's expression a mixture of mortification and horror. Alphonse turned in his seat, as did everyone at the table, finding nothing, and turning back towards each other in confusion. Alphonse was reaching for Edward's hand, "Ed, what's wrong?"

Edward heard Alphonse's voice, but he didn't look away from the head, who's grimace had turned into a frown, and then into a smile, and then back into grimace. Edward was suddenly conscious of his breathing, strenuous and shrill, empty with every breath, exhausting. Edward took a step back, sickness in his stomach, and he swallowed, trying to stifle the sickness. For a split second, Edward looked at Alphonse, who was concerned, and Edward walked away. Alphonse stood, he was going to follow Edward, but he was stopped by a wedding guest, an old friend, and he lost sight of Edward. But Edward didn't make it very far, he had only just made it outside before he began to vomit. The sickness was hot, scalding, and eventually, Edward fell to his knees, coughing, and with his hands, shaking, he smeared the bloody mess across his mouth. For a moment, Edward remained, until he sat back against the barn, resting his head against the siding. Edward could feel the sickness running from his mouth, it was in his teeth, and he was seething, not breathing, because he _couldn't_ breathe.

But Edward wasn't alone, the head was sitting beside him, laughing, " _Edward_ ," and the head paused, surrendering to uncontrollable laughter, spitting the words out, maggots and all, "talk to me, _Edward_."

"Shut up."

The head was still laughing, "I'm sorry, _I lied_ , he's not gonna eat you," and the head stopped laughing, its expression still, stagnant, "he's gonna rip out your insides, your intestines, and then, he's gonna _strangle_ you with them." And the head paused, "And then, he's gonna shove them down your throat and make you _eat_ them."

" _Shut up_."

"Who are you talking to?"

It was mostly in panic, Edward stumbling to his feet. Edward wiped his mouth, violently, staining his sweater, which wasn't quite black. He was breathing heavily, feeling lightheaded, having stood too quickly. Edward leaned against the side of the barn, standing upright, stable, for a moment. Edward knew who the voice belonged to, Roy, who was smoking a cigarette. It was dark, and there was no way that Roy could see him, really _see_ him, but Roy spoke in observation, nonetheless, "You don't look well, Edward," and when Edward didn't respond, "I didn't think that you would come, seems a bit out of character, _for you_."

Edward wasn't looking at Roy, he was avoiding eye contact, "Yeah, I guess." But Edward was distracted, not by Mustang, but by the head, who was speaking, _he knows, he knows, he knows_. Edward closed his eyes, trying to compose himself, breathing heavily, and under his breath, " _Shut up_."

Roy was watching with unease, something like confusion, or concern, "What happened to your face, you look fucking horrible."

Edward wiped his mouth, again, smearing more sickness, he could taste the blood, rotten in his teeth, "It's none of your business." Edward had started to walk back towards the door, but Roy was standing in his way. Roy didn't move, though, he was looking at Edward, who was grinding his teeth, trying to drown out the voice, _kill him, kill him, kill him._ Edward brought his hand to his jaw, applying pressure, shutting his eyes. There was something swelling up inside him, something like violence, " _Move_."

Roy took a drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke in Edward's direction, "Transmute something, your hand, _anything_." Edward stood in defiance, his expression a grimace, exposing his teeth. Roy smiled, in victory, but it wasn't in happiness, and he frowned, "That's what I thought, you can't, _can you?_ " Roy flicked the butt of his cigarette into the grass, "I wanted to believe you, Ed, when you said that Alphonse appeared by accident, I really did. You were smart, smarter than me, smarter than any of the other alchemists, and for a second I thought you had really done it." Roy laughed, it was dry in his throat, cynical, "But you fucked up, just like everyone else."

Edward's grimace had lost momentum, falling flat, as he backed away, "I don't know what you're talking about." And the voice, _kill him_ , pounding inside Edward's skull, now a migraine, like his ears would bleed. He would deny what he had done until the bitter end, there was no substantiation, and not even Alphonse's body could be used against him. Proof. That was what Roy was seeking, something physical in the midst of something immaterial.

Roy sighed, "You could have come to me. I would have helped you."

Edward almost laughed, "You would have helped me with _what_ , exactly?" Roy opened his mouth, but Edward cut him off, "Do you think that you were helping me, Roy?" The question was almost earnest, but it was angry, and Edward closed his mouth, deciding that he had said enough.

Again, Roy was about to speak, but he was interrupted by Alphonse, who was looking for Edward, "There you are, Ed."

Edward looked away, his shoulders sagging, "I'm here."

Roy may have thought that the interaction was odd, but he changed the course of the conversation, speaking to Alphonse, "Congratulations, Alphonse. What a beautiful wedding."

Alphonse had heard their conversation, he had been standing behind the door. He was weary of the situation, and he tried to appear calm, "Thank you, Roy."

Roy smiled at Alphonse, shaking his hand, all the while leaning towards him, his voice only a whisper, "I think your brother is hearing voices." And Roy walked away, back inside the barn.

Alphonse was looking at Edward, who was cradling his jaw, clenching his teeth, his eyes shut, as though he were in pain. Alphonse spoke once, "Ed? Edward." But Edward didn't respond, he was consumed by chronic pain, which was insidious, and sudden, trying to ease the ache. Alphonse spoke again, louder, with emphasis, " _Edward_."

Edward looked up at Alphonse, abruptly, his chest heavy, like he was going to cry, "I'm sorry, Al. I'm trying to be good, I just, _I was just_ ," and Edward placed his hand over his mouth, feeling nauseous, speaking the truth, "I just felt sick. I _feel_ sick."

Alphonse walked over to Edward, taking his hand, "It's OK, Ed. You did nothing wrong." Alphonse led Edward back inside the barn, releasing his hand. But there _was_ something wrong, Alphonse's hand was stained red, and when he looked back at Edward, he was bleeding from his mouth. It was then, that something terrible occurred to Alphonse. Edward wasn't lying, Edward had told him the truth. He was _dying_. Slowly, just like mom. Edward was drowning, and just as their mother drowned in her sleep, so would Ed, eventually, if there was no one there to wake him up. Edward tried to kill himself to end his suffering, he was trying to show himself mercy, to be merciful, just like he had shown their mother mercy. Alphonse, who was looking at Edward, knew that this was not mercy, _no one_ had shown Edward mercy, not once. Alphonse felt an uncontrollable sadness, then, because even he had been cruel to Ed.

Alphonse reached into his pocket and took out his handkerchief, white, and he wiped Edward's face, now red. Alphonse wiped his hands and Edward's sweater, smudging the blood, but it looked a lot less like blood. Alphonse was trying not to cry, he was trying to be strong, and he spoke, "You should sit down, Ed. The reception won't last much longer, and then, you can rest for a while. You look tired."

Edward's voice was soft, softer than before, "I'm OK."

Alphonse was trying not to sob, "Don't lie to me, Ed. _Please_ , don't lie to me."

Edward looked away, "You shouldn't worry so much, Alphonse," and Edward smiled, it was small, his teeth almost showing, "you deserve to be happy."

Alphonse wasn't sure how to feel about Edward had just said, unease, comfort, _discomfort_. Edward didn't smile, it hurt too much, but it appeared to be genuine, like Edward really meant what he had said. And as suddenly as Edward had smiled, he grimaced, Alphonse taking his hand, "You deserve to be happy, too, Ed."

Alphonse led Edward back to the table, which was where he stayed for the rest of the night. The wedding concluded around eleven, guests leaving within the hour, until only the wedding party remained. Winry's parents left first, then the best man, then the maid of honor, Winry and Emme departing soon after. Alphonse paid the servers, the staff, and the night was over. Edward drove home with Alphonse, they didn't speak, but it was alright, it was comfortable silence. When they arrived home, Winry was putting Emme to bed, and when she walked back into the living room, she did not address Alphonse, not immediately, but Edward, "There is a message for you on the machine, someone from the military wants you to call them back. It sounded important."

Edward thanked Winry, Winry leaving the room, Alphonse lingering behind. Edward picked up the phone, dialing military services, services answering the phone, Edward relaying his military identification code. Edward was transferred to the head of the Investigations department, who was a General of some type, Edward having only met him a couple of times. The voice on the other line was serious, and the voice was stern, "Mr. Elric, I have troubling news. Your partner, Adam Bennett, is dead."


	16. it was November

Syphon

Chapter 16: it was November

"Dead?"

At first, Edward didn't understand. He heard the word _dead_ , denial smothering out the rest. There was a pause on the other side, the man waiting for Edward to process the information, and it took all of sixty seconds before sinking in. Edward didn't feel anything, not yet, his heart was numb. Edward felt the phone slip through his fingers, to the floor, the man speaking when he heard only silence, "Hello, Mr. Elric?"

Edward was staring ahead, continuing to feel nothing, but that was only until he started to speak. It was involuntary, out of fear, and it was soft, _no, no, no_. There was something in his voice, he could hear it, a strain, the words heavier now, harsh, heaving, _no, no, no_. Edward took a breath, violent, his hand covering his mouth, sobbing, _screaming_ , but he wasn't screaming, there was no sound. And the voice, the one in his head, _I told you to run, I warned you_. Edward could no longer stand and he sunk onto the sofa, all but suffocating, his words muffled by his fingers, _no, no, no._

Alphonse knew that there was something wrong, it was the moment that Edward's expression didn't change, when the word _dead_ came out of his mouth. The word lacked comprehension, or sympathy, spoken as a question, but it was really a statement. Edward dropped the phone, speaking, but it wasn't to anyone in particular, more to himself, in a, _I told you so,_ kind of way. Alphonse had initially tried to get Edward's attention, but Edward was spiraling, and when Ed sat down on the sofa, Alphonse sat down next to him, trying to pry Edward's hand away from his mouth, "Talk to me, Ed. Let me _help_ you."

It took a moment, Alphonse wrenching Edward's hand away, holding it. Edward's hand was shaking, his teeth clenched, his eyes shut, and the words, _no, no, no_ , forced out through his teeth. Edward knew that he was speaking, but he couldn't stop the words, they were like water, dense, however, delicate. He was trying to suppress the voice in his head, _he's gonna eat you, he's gonna fucking eat you_ , repeating, in a loop, over and over again. Alphonse had let go of Edward's hand, placing his own hands on Edward's face, forcing Ed to look at him. Edward opened his eyes, he could see Alphonse's lips moving, but he couldn't hear him, "Ed, what's wrong?" Again, "Talk to me, Ed," and once more, " _please_."

Edward reached up and held onto Alphonse's hands, his voice only a whisper, "He's going to _eat_ me."

For a moment, Alphonse considered that Edward was having a psychotic break. Edward could have said something like, "he's going to kill me," which was far more plausible than, "he's going to eat me." And it was in the way that he said it, with fear, and in the way that he said the word _eat_ , as though it were inevitable and unavoidable. Edward's expression had changed, it was slow, nothingness, to pain, to horror, _he's going to eat me,_ sadness, and then, hopelessness. Alphonse couldn't control his own expression, though, his concern, his worry, and suddenly, Edward pushed him away. Alphonse was trying to maintain his grip on Edward's hands, but Edward was struggling against him, and Alphonse spoke, "Ed, you need to calm down."

Edward fought for only a moment, his hopelessness losing ground, with his desperation rising to the surface, "I'm not crazy, Al."

Alphonse sighed, trying to remain calm, "I didn't say that, Ed." Alphonse was watching Edward, his anxiousness trying to take control, "Look at me, Ed. Who is dead?"

Edward was sweating, and he wiped his face, pulling his skin, dragging his hand across his teeth, "Adam. Adam is dead." At the sound of the words, Edward shut his eyes, inhaling, "Adam's dead." And again, "He's dead. Adam's dead." Exhaling, _dead, dead, dead_ , inhaling, _dead, dead, dead_ , and a sob, "Adam's _fucking_ dead."

Something terrible ran through Alphonse, fear, maybe. But it wasn't fear, it was something much worse. Adam had just been there, alive, only a few hours ago. Alphonse didn't know what Edward and Adam had been investigating or if it had something to do with Edward's terse, if not tense, _he's going to eat me_. Adam had seemed weary, but not afraid, not like Edward. Maybe, it was an accident, maybe, it didn't have anything to do with Edward, or the case, or anything at all. Maybe, it was just a coincidence, but Edward's reaction made Alphonse think that it was anything _but_ coincidence. Like it was planned, purposeful. And maybe, it didn't matter. Adam wasn't a priority to Alphonse, but Edward was, and Edward needed help. Alphonse spoke, gently, placing his hand on Edward's shoulder, "It's going to be OK, Ed."

Edward grimaced, "I let him down. I should have been there, _I should have fucking been there_."

"Ed, don't do that, don't blame yourself."

Edward stood suddenly, pacing, "I have to go, _I have to_ ," and Edward frowned, his expression twisting, now a distortion, "what am I doing?" And Edward paused, sneering, "What the _fuck_ am I doing?"

Alphonse, who was worried that things were getting out of hand, couldn't let Edward leave, not like _this_. He was a danger to himself, to everyone else, bad things happened when Edward felt trapped, backed into a corner, without any other option but to fight. The problem was, Edward would fight, not just to protect himself, but to the death. Edward's determination was a combination of many things. Pain, because Edward was powerless against himself. Desperation, because Edward was being buried alive. Anger, because Edward had been hurt by the ones that he loved. Hurt, because Edward had let the world tear him apart. Disappointment, because no one would help him. Shame, because Edward couldn't control what had been done to him. And fear, because Edward had seen death, knowing that there were worse things than death.

Edward wasn't afraid of the things that kept Alphonse up at night, he was afraid of something else, _someone_ else, not death, or pain, nothing physical. Edward was afraid of consequences, because he had suffered in the name of consequence, not once, but twice. And those things, all of the horrible things inside Edward, they made him dangerous, volatile, violent. The drinking, the drugs, those were for his pain, his shame. But the war, the carnage, that was for himself. Edward believed that violence canceled out other violence, sort of like pain, as though there were only one source, singular. Edward wasn't wrong, but he wasn't right, either. Alphonse didn't understand a lot of things, but he knew that somewhere along the line, things had begun to overlap inside Edward's brain. Language, emotions, his actions, his reactions, they were all misshapen, as they were all morose. What Edward was doing, pacing, reprimanding himself, in anger, with apathy, would only lead to one thing, _vice_.

Alphonse stood, then, backing away from Edward, "Ed, I need you to listen to me. You are not OK, do you hear me?" Alphonse was holding out his hands, in defense, as though it were necessary to defend himself, "I still have the pills that the doctor used to give you, I want you to take them."

There was something horrible in Edward's expression as he turned to face his brother, "Don't make me take those pills, Al."

Alphonse's voice was low, and he swallowed, struggling to speak, "You're scaring me, Ed. Please, take the pills."

The pills were antipsychotics, they were prescribed to Edward after he got back from the war, when he was really messed up. The dosage was high, but Edward had been unstable, and they helped, momentarily, until they made him feel sick. When Edward took them as prescribed, they made him tired, which, at the time, was a good thing. At first, Edward would sleep through the night, seemingly stable, somewhat active during the day. But it wasn't long before Edward would sleep through most of the day, walking around in a daze, like he was asleep, but he was really awake. And after that, when the pills had taken over his life, Edward would feel sick, vomiting upon waking, all the while losing weight because he was too tired, or too sick to eat.

But that wasn't the last time that Edward took the pills. After Alphonse had been restored, Edward hadn't really gotten any better. Edward was still on the path of self-destruction, depression, deprecation, and Alphonse convinced Edward to go back to the doctor. Alphonse went with Edward to the doctor, knowing that they would prescribe the pills, asking the doctor to lessen the dose. But upon speaking with Edward, the doctor not only prescribed the pills, but he increased the dosage, almost double. Edward took the pills because Alphonse asked him to, but that only lasted for so long, just long enough for Alphonse to remember why he made Edward stop taking them in the first place. The sickness was uncontrollable, Edward couldn't even think, let alone work, but he continued to take the pills, for Alphonse, because he was trying to be good, _better_. But, eventually, Alphonse couldn't stand to see Edward that way, and he told Edward to stop.

But Edward didn't necessarily stop taking the pills, he abused them, preferring to take too many, all but in a catatonic state. Edward would crush the pills, drinking gin, preferring to let the alcohol settle, feeling nothing. Edward would take the pills and mix them with other pills, getting high, becoming violent, but that was only until Alphonse took them away. Alphonse went to Edward's apartment one night, Edward unconscious on the couch, Alphonse taking the pills, knowing that it wouldn't change things. Edward didn't need the pills, he had every kind of medication known to man in his apartment, but Alphonse was responsible for that, _those pills_ , so he took them away.

Edward was silent for a moment, contemplating, but he spoke, suddenly, relenting, "OK."

Alphonse released a breath, feeling calm. There was nothing more frightening than Edward and his desperation, _nothing_. Alphonse rubbed his eyes, then, tired now, "I'm going to go get them, just," and Alphonse held out his hands, motioning towards Edward, "stay here."

Alphonse walked away, into the bathroom, opening the mirror. There was a bottle, orange, on the top shelf. The pills were old, expired, even, but they would have to do. Alphonse walked back into the living room, half expecting Edward to be gone, but he was still standing there, overwrought. Alphonse opened the bottle, taking out two pills, as prescribed, and he handed then to Ed. Edward took the pills, swallowing them, his hand lingering over his mouth. Edward's reaction wasn't sudden, it was slow, the pills were slow, and only until Edward sat back down on the couch did Alphonse feel safe. Alphonse knew that Edward would never hurt him, not intentionally, but Ed was under stress, duress, and it was heavy, in his eyes, as though it were physical. Alphonse noticed that Edward had closed his eyes, and Alphonse spoke, breaking the silence, "C'mon, Ed. I'll drive you home."

Edward shook his head, standing. Edward opened his eyes and walked towards the door, Alphonse following. Edward was already outside, Winry emerging, her voice stark against the silence, "Where are you going?"

Alphonse was almost through the door, and he turned when he heard Winry's voice, "I have to take Edward home, I'll be back in the morning."

Winry looked away, "OK," and as she turned to leave, "be careful, Alphonse."

Alphonse frowned, "I love you."

Alphonse's sentiment was echoed by a quiet _I love you_ as Winry walked away. Alphonse walked through the front door, locking it, and taking out his car keys. Edward was leaning against the side of the car, numb, and Alphonse helped him inside. The drive wasn't as long as Alphonse remembered it to be, and soon they were in Central, past midnight, the streets empty. Alphonse parked outside of Edward's apartment building, taking Edward's bag, finding his keys. Alphonse led Edward to his door, unlocking it, expecting the room to be dark. But the lights were on, a haze of smoke lingering in the air. There was a man sitting on the couch, smoking, dark hair, and dark eyes, and he looked at Alphonse, smiling, "You must be Alphonse," and he took a drag from his cigarette, still smiling.

Alphonse felt cold, but it was only his fear, "And you must be Kimblee."


	17. it was November pt2

*non-consensual sex

Syphon

Chapter 17: it was November pt. 2

There was a time, years ago now, when Alphonse would come home to find Edward in bed with someone. There had been a multitude of participants, men, women, usually strangers, their purpose, a warm body. Alphonse knew, even though he was young, that Edward had several problems. One, Edward lacked self-control. And two, there was someone that Edward slept with, someone cruel, that Edward allowed to hurt him. Edward would go out, sober, but when he returned, drunk, his lips split, and high, his face black and blue. Alphonse was discouraged to say anything, he didn't understand Edward's sexual relationships, nor did he understand why Edward let someone hurt him so badly. Edward would come home, satisfied, but ashamed, only to cry in the bathtub, torn apart. It was a terrible kind of weeping, sadness there, something bottomless and burning all the same.

There was only one occasion that Alphonse found Edward in bed with Kimblee. Kimblee was holding Edward, the position possessive, Edward bleeding into the bed sheets. Edward didn't look satiated, and even though he was sleeping, his expression was strained. There was nothing right about what Alphonse had seen, not his brother, naked, beaten, or the man lying beside him. Kimblee had been awake, he was looking at Alphonse, taunting him, running his hand through Edward's hair. Kimblee breathed into Edward's hair, inhaling, like it was intoxicating, and he smiled at Alphonse. Kimblee had a horrendous smile, broken teeth, and blood red gums. Alphonse remembered screaming, _get out_. But Kimblee wasn't afraid of Alphonse, he was amused by Alphonse, and he wrapped his hands around Edward, touching him, pushing him into the mattress. Edward didn't wake up, though, he was still high, moaning softly, rolling onto his side. That was where the two of them remained, Kimblee and Edward, fucking, Alphonse turning on his heel, leaving the apartment. He was upset, embarrassed, that he had seen such a thing and that he had done nothing about it.

When Alphonse returned, hours later, Kimblee was gone, Edward still in bed. Edward was conscious, having pulled the sheets to cover himself, acknowledging Alphonse's return by mumbling something incoherent. Edward was rubbing his jaw, something that he did chronically, grimacing. Edward was weeping, but it wasn't apparent, but ambiguous, a mixture of many emotions, involuntary, even. Edward wiped his eyes, wincing, and then his nose, bloody, his expression contorting into pain, a sob, and a breath. Edward refused to look at Alphonse, Alphonse could see the shame, and Edward turned away, whispering, _I'm going to lie here for a while_. Alphonse didn't know what to do, so he did nothing, allowing Edward to slip further and further away. The next morning, Edward was gone, and Alphonse left for Resembool, leaving only a note on the kitchen counter.

But that had been years ago, Edward didn't sleep around like he used to, finding comfort in other things, like Morphine and mutilation. Alphonse wasn't even sure if Edward still slept with Kimblee, they seemed distant, Edward standing across the room, Kimblee reclining on the couch. But it never really seemed like Edward _liked_ Kimblee, more like he tolerated him, because Kimblee gave Edward what he wanted, or, at least, what Edward thought that he wanted. It was never really any of Alphonse's business, they weren't close, he and Ed, not like they used to be. And maybe, Alphonse should have said something, because Edward was his brother, because Edward needed someone to stand up for him. But he didn't, he let Edward drown.

Alphonse was distracted by Edward, who, unsteady, was now standing between them, obstructing Kimblee's view of Alphonse. Edward wasn't happy, he was frowning, and his words were tense, "What do you want, Kimblee." It wasn't a question, more like, _get the fuck out of my apartment_ , but in passive aggressive kind of way.

Kimblee was still smiling, " _Oh_ , I heard that your partner died," and a laugh, "didn't you hear? I was hoping that you would be pretty broken up about it, like when that little girl died, what was her name, Nina, wasn't it?" Edward didn't react, not yet, and Kimblee continued, "I mean, I didn't _want_ to kill her, Ed, but she was a horrendous little thing. It was a mercy killing, really." Kimblee stood, speaking, driving the knife deeper, "Adam was a son of a bitch, telling me to leave, fucker even tried to shoot me. I'm still a little upset that he threatened me, Ed. I wasn't trying to hurt you," Kimblee was standing in front of Edward, touching the bruise on his neck, "I just wanted to fuck you. That was all."

It was sudden, Edward pushing Kimblee away, Kimblee stumbling, but still standing, "Don't fucking touch me, Kimblee."

Kimblee frowned for a moment, and then he smiled, adjusting his shirt, smoothing his hair, "Call me Kim, Ed. Just like you used to." And for a moment, Kimblee didn't speak, preferring to close the gap between them, "You don't want to do this, Ed, not with your brother here. He's not ready to hear the truth," Kimblee was whispering into Edward's ear, "unless you want him to watch you suck my cock."

Edward pushed Kimblee away, but he didn't let go, his metal hand was twisted around the collar of Kimblee's shirt. But the reaction was sudden, and Edward let go, his hand falling against the wall to steady himself. Edward felt out of breath, the pain in his chest returning, and he turned to Alphonse, "Go home, Alphonse."

Alphonse couldn't leave Edward, Edward couldn't defend himself. Kimblee was a dangerous person, and Edward, no matter how strong or smart, was powerless against him. Something about Kimblee made Edward feel helpless, like Kimblee would protect him, _love_ him. But Kimblee took things from Edward, his body, physical things, controlling as he was covetous. But he also took things that couldn't be seen, like sentiment, sympathy, selfishly taking them for himself. Kimblee let Edward remain the same, urging Edward to take a step further in his direction, syphoning his independence. Kimblee wanted Edward to rely on him, on the drugs, the drinking, because Kimblee would always be there to pick up the pieces, but he wouldn't put Edward back together. Kimblee stole the pieces, every single one, and Edward let him do it, every single time, never considering the consequences.

Alphonse wasn't stupid, if he left Edward alone with Kimblee, things would only end one way. Edward would relent, he would let Kimblee hurt him, because that, if anything, was inevitable. Alphonse took Edward's hand, pulling him towards the door, "Let's go, Ed." Alphonse tightened his grip, his knuckles white, " _Please_."

Edward let Alphonse lead him away, and he was almost through the door, when Kimblee spoke, sharp, "You know why I'm here, Ed. If you leave, you're done."

Edward stopped, still in the doorway, silent, his expression undistinguishable. Edward turned to face Kimblee, whose hand was in the air, holding a noose, as though he were being strangled. Kimblee was smiling, pretending to choke, laughing, "They'll fucking hang you, Ed. You signed your contract in blood, _remember_?"

For a moment, Edward did nothing. Kimblee was there to retrieve him, they were being sent to hunt down the child killer. Edward knew that this moment would come, he wasn't prepared for it, knowing that there was nothing that he could do to stop it. Kimblee would be the first to figure it out, no alchemy, not from Edward, and that would be the end. Kimblee would sell Edward out to the military, _the end_. Edward could run, but he wouldn't make it very far. Kimblee would come for him, he would burn the world to the ground to find Edward. Edward would fight, but that wasn't the truth, he would let Kimblee kill him.

Edward pulled his hand away from Alphonse, "Alphonse, I need you to leave." Alphonse opened his mouth, to protest, but Edward cut him off, "I made a lot of mistakes. This is the price."

Alphonse dropped his hand, "You don't have to do this, Ed. We'll find the money to revoke your contract, _please_ , Ed, _listen to me_."

Edward looked into his brother's eyes and shut the door in his face. Alphonse was standing on the other side, staring at the door, and Edward didn't move until he heard Alphonse's footsteps fade down the corridor. Kimblee was smiling at Edward, "You'll be alright then, Ed?" Kimblee was walking towards Edward, his hand resting on Edward's shoulder, "Alphonse doesn't understand, _but I do_."

Edward turned, Kimblee was staring into his eyes, smiling, his expression salacious, although, savage. Kimblee ran his hand down Edward's cheek, resting is thumb on Edward's jaw, pushing Edward against the door. Edward tried to push Kimblee away, but he felt weak, only to feel numb, and then, nothing. Kimblee leaned over and pressed his lips against Edward's lips, his tongue sliding into Edward's mouth. Kimblee's hands were in Edward's hair, holding his head in place, sucking on Edward's tongue. And when Kimblee was no longer satisfied by Edward's mouth, he dragged his lips across Edward's jaw and into the crook of his neck, lapping at his skin. Again, Edward tried to shove Kimblee away, but Kimblee violently pushed Edward back against the wall, biting down with his teeth.

Edward gasped, the wound weeping, burning, Kimblee's teeth underneath his skin, masticating. Kimblee let go of Edward's hair, preferring to hold Edward's head with one hand while the other found its way beneath his shirt. Kimblee was touching Edward's skin, smearing the blood that was gushing from his neck, and in an instant, Kimblee was in Edward's mouth, moaning. Edward could taste his blood, metallic, like his teeth, and Kimblee pulled away, suddenly, striking Edward with the back of his hand. Edward fell against the door, but Kimblee held him upright, unbuckling his belt. Edward's vision was blurry, the taste of blood lingering in his mouth, overtaking his senses. Kimblee was touching himself, his hand unbuttoning Edward's slacks, and in an instant, Kimblee turned Ed around, forcing himself inside.

Edward didn't fight Kimblee, he let him fuck him, even though it hurt, was burning, humiliating. Edward rested his head against the door, closing his eyes, wincing, listening to Kimblee moan into his ear. Kimblee's hands were on Edward's ass, gripping his skin, and then his cock, stroking him. There was nothing pleasurable, only pain, and Edward groaned when Kimblee lurched forward, pushing himself deeper. Kimblee was breathing heavily, close now, and he pressed Edward's head against the door, his tongue in Edward's ear, "Say my name." And when Edward didn't respond, Kimblee bashed Edward's head against the wall, " _Say my name_."

Edward could feel the blood, warm, running down his face, "Kim."

Kimblee released Edward's head, moaning, wrapping his arm around Edward's chest, " _Again_."

Edward felt his head fall to the side, he was panting, delirious, "Kim."

Kimblee was about to say something else, but he came inside Edward, crushing Ed against the door. Edward could barely stand, he was holding onto Kimblee's arm, his leg numb. For a moment, they remained, Kimblee inside Edward, breathing in Edward's scent, like sweat, like metal, like musk. Kimblee pulled out of Edward, Edward collapsing against the wall, numbly buttoning his slacks. Kimblee tucked his cock back into his pants, running his hand through his hair, glossy with grease. Kimblee ran his hand up Edward's arm, his hand landing on the imprint of his incisors, his fingers digging into Edward's skin. Edward released a groan, strangled, blood pouring from the wound, dripping onto the floor, _splat_. Edward wrenched Kimblee's hand away, the wound ripped open, pulsing, all the while trying to stop the bleeding with his hand.

Kimblee frowned, knocking Edward's legs out from underneath him. Edward fell to the floor, Kimblee standing over him, breathing with great inconvenience. Kimblee struck Edward in the jaw, again, and again, Edward's face snapping to the side, blood splattering across the hardwood. Edward was bleeding from his mouth, lying on his back, choking on his own blood. Kimblee lifted Edward from the floor by the collar of his shirt, striking him again, _snap_. Edward fell back onto the floor, Kimblee wrapping his hands around his throat, strangling him. Edward tried to pry Kimblee's fingers away from his skin, but he was exhausted, his metal hand inept, ineffective. Edward reached for Kimblee's face, but Kimblee pushed his hand away, his grip only tightening. Edward was slipping away, but right before the blackout, Kimblee let go of Edward's neck, releasing him. Edward gasped for air, spitting blood from his mouth, rolling onto his side, gagging on the copper taste.

Kimblee stood, using his foot to push Edward back onto the floor, "I'm sorry about Adam, I really am. I know how you get attached to things, Ed, it's sad, really. But I get it, I really do." Kimblee took out a cigarette, placing it in mouth, speaking around it, "Here's the deal, Ed. The military isn't very happy, not with you." Kimblee took a lighter out of his pocket, striking a flame, "They sent me to beat some sense into you, but more importantly, to leave you with this," and Kimblee took a breath, "if you don't get your shit together, meaning, if you don't come with me right now, I'll have to kill your brother. It's nothing personal, Ed, really, I like you. Adam was an empty threat, but I'm sure that you'd do anything to protect your brother." Kimblee took another drag from his cigarette and took a step back, "I'll give you a minute to," and Kimblee paused, motioning towards Edward with is hands, " _fix this_."

It took Edward a while to get to his feet, he was unstable, his head swimming, still bleeding. Edward was trying to breathe, but he was seething through his teeth. Edward was walking towards the bathroom, but Kimblee wasn't finished speaking, "Oh, and just so you know, _Ed_. I know why you resigned, I'm not fucking stupid. But, at least, you're not completely useless. You were good at alchemy, but it was never your greatest strength." And Kimblee laughed, "Remember when you killed that guy with a spoon? Your still psychotic enough to do that, aren't you, Ed?"

Edward could hear Kimblee speaking, but he wasn't listening. Edward was already in the bathroom looking at his reflection. His face was a mess, his forehead was bleeding, his nose was bleeding, Edward's lips bloody and bruised. Edward's shirt was saturated, the bite still bleeding, swollen, blood on his hands, in his hair. Edward didn't have the strength to do anything about the way that he looked, so he turned on the faucet, washing his face instead. When Edward looked back in the mirror, he didn't recognize himself. The cuts and the bruises had distorted his features, he didn't look sick anymore, Edward looked broken, beaten down. Edward took a towel and smeared what was left of the blood, holding it over his nose, his mouth, sobbing, _screaming_.

Edward walked out of the bathroom and to the closet. Edward took his rifle, enough rounds to satisfy, and walked back out into the living room. Kimblee was still smoking, his eyes on Edward, "That's better."

And they left the apartment.


	18. it was November pt3

Syphon

Chapter 18: it was November pt. 3

When Edward transferred to the investigations department, he wasn't a detective. Edward had turned down the position, initially, because he wanted to be left alone. Edward found himself unable to function, he was sleepless, craving pills and poison. Edward was in a particularly agonizing phase of his life, things had gotten bad, he was sick, _so sick_ , and sad, a sadness that Edward couldn't seem to smother out. Edward was drinking too much, he had given up the pills, but drinking wasn't enough. He needed something else, someone else, and it didn't matter who, just as long as he could feel something other than sadness. So Edward would go out, get drunk, and fuck someone.

At some point, that wasn't enough. So Edward turned to Kimblee, his companion, for consolation. Edward knew that Kimblee would give him what he wanted, comfort, _contempt_ , knowing that he wasn't fixing the real problem. Edward let Kim beat him because it made him hard, or at least, that was what he told himself. Kimblee never filled the emptiness that made Edward feel sad, Kim was a distraction, which was his purpose. Kimblee meant nothing to Edward, Kimblee was cruel, and he was abusive, physically, emotionally, sexually, but Edward would never leave. Edward believed that he deserved to be beaten, torn down, put in his place, so he remained, redacting control over his life, unhappy.

Edward became complacent with Kimblee, he let Kim tell him what to do, who he could talk to, where he could go, and Edward didn't fight it, allowing Kim manipulate him. Eventually, Edward stopped showing up to work, Kimblee wouldn't let him leave the apartment, and he stopped eating, because Kimblee told him that he needed to lose weight. Edward was already having problems with Alphonse, and Kimblee, possessive, kept pulling Ed away. Kimblee would tell Edward that Alphonse didn't love him, _he hates you_ , and Edward believed him. The world had been unkind to Edward, Kimblee knew that, and he used violence to take advantage of Edward, because Edward responded to violence. Kimblee would tell Edward that he wanted to fuck him, only to tell him that he was ugly, or stupid, and then hit him. The abuse had become normalcy to Edward, and he accepted it, thinking that there was nothing wrong with his life or how he was living it.

For two years, Edward stayed with Kim. At the time, Alphonse was living in Central with Edward. Edward was never home, though, he was usually with Kim at his apartment. So it was a surprise, then, when Alphonse came home to find Edward in bed with Kimblee. They had been out drinking, Edward in an almost comatose state, and before they could make it back to Kimblee's apartment, Kimblee wanted Ed, _bad_ , so they ended up in Edward's apartment. Edward couldn't remember what happened, only that when the high wore off, he hurt. He could see the blood on the pillow, and that he was naked, and that Kim was gone. He remembered being cold and pulling the sheets up to cover himself, only to see Alphonse standing there, _horrified_. Edward tried to speak, but the words were mangled, and before he could stop himself, he was crying, sobbing. Edward couldn't look his brother in the eyes, so he turned away, in shame. _Shame_ , he was so ashamed himself, so fucking ashamed. Edward didn't know how long that Alphonse had been there or what he had seen, but it didn't matter. He could see it in his brother's eyes, Alphonse couldn't take his bullshit anymore. Alphonse was done.

In an effort to turn his life around, Edward accepted the position of detective, but his sudden inclination of goodness was wanton. Edward was problematic, he was assigned several partners, but they couldn't control him, as in, he was uncontrollable. When Edward was assigned to Adam, Adam was apprehensive, young, allowing Edward to be independent. Adam didn't try to overpower Edward, they were partners, which meant equality, but they weren't friends, they were complete strangers. At first, things were OK, Adam balanced out Edward's volatile behavior, and Edward even showed up for work, but that didn't last long.

Adam tried to reach out to Edward, to be his friend, but Edward pushed Adam away. Adam would ask Ed if he wanted to grab a beer after work, Edward would say _no_ , not in a dismissive kind of way, but in an uneasy kind of way. That was when Adam started noticing things about Edward, little things, like his lack of eye contact, his excessive tiredness, his hygiene, his health, poor. Adam knew that Edward was troubled, and his lifestyle accounted for those things, but Edward showed up one day, after missing several days of work, with a black eye. It wasn't just the black eye, though, Edward looked haggard, and sad, withdrawn, with unsettling content. The bruise was several days old, yellow now, and Adam couldn't keep his mouth shut.

Adam didn't want to alarm Edward, and or, upset him, so he asked a general question, "Is everything OK, Ed?" Edward looked at Adam, momentarily, his expression strained, and he looked away. Adam didn't ask anything else, that was, until a week later, when Edward showed up late, sallow, his lip still bleeding. Adam was at his desk, waiting for Edward to arrive, and when he did, Adam couldn't contain his concern, "Christ, Ed, _what happened?_ "

Once again, Edward ignored Adam. Edward wiped his lip, knowing that it was the cause of Adam's outburst, and sat down. Adam was waiting for Edward to admit to abuse, to ask for help, _something_. But Edward never said anything, and things just got worse. Adam would try to ask specific questions, as not to seem intrusive, thinking that Edward would slip, but he never did. At some point, Edward told Adam to leave him alone, and Adam relented, however, with worry, always wondering how bad things were going to get. And it was only after a few months of Edward's nonattendance, or truancy, when he was reprimanded, not by the head of the investigations department, but by the Major General. Adam didn't hear the conversation, but he was informed later that _he_ , Adam Bennett, was to make sure that Edward got to work on time.

It was a year later, Adam had started driving Edward to work. Adam knew where Edward lived, but Edward was rarely there, and Ed never told Adam where he was. One morning, on a particularly abysmal day, Adam was on his way to Edward's apartment. It was not Adam's intention to walk into the apartment, he always knocked, to be polite, to give Edward a second to compose himself. But the door was open, and Adam walked inside. Adam was under the impression that things were bad, but what he failed to realize was the extent, or the capacity, of the violence. Edward was lying on the couch, Kimblee behind him, fucking him. Kimblee's hand was covering Edward's mouth, stifling any sound, smothering him. Edward was crying, his eyes shut, his expression a grimace, in pain, all the while trying to wrench Kimblee's hand away from his face.

It didn't take long for Adam to react, he pulled Kimblee off of Edward, standing between them, demanding that Kimblee leave. Kimblee only laughed at Adam, "I don't do anything that he doesn't ask me to do," and Kimblee looked over at Ed, who had covered himself with a blanket, still lying on the couch, "isn't that right, Ed?"

Adam looked at Edward, his eyes were still shut, and he was sobbing into the cushions. Adam took out his gun and aimed it at Kimblee, "Get out."

Kimblee smiled at Adam, "I've heard that before, _Adam_. Are you really going to shoot me?" Kimblee was walking towards Adam, "Or are you more concerned that _I'm_ fucking him and _you're_ not?"

Adam fired the gun, a warning shot, and Kimblee took a step back, "If you ever touch him again, I'll fucking kill you." Kimblee frowned, and he turned, walking out of the apartment. He never came back.

That was, until Kimblee killed Adam, _dead_.

After Edward left his apartment, he was feeling an assortment of things. He felt pain, physically, with a certain numbness overtaking his brain. It wasn't until a few hours later, while driving through Central, when things started to really sink in. Panic was the first apparition, Edward convinced that he was suffocating in the passenger's seat, followed by uncontrollable sadness, and then, shame. Shame was Edward's oldest friend, and when Edward realized what had happened, he was violently ill. Kimblee stopped the car, Edward opening the door, wrenching, grasping at his throat, sore, and swollen shut. Edward's pain was entertaining to Kimblee, who was laughing, knowing that he was the cause of such a sight. The sight, being, Edward leaning through the door, gasping for breath, and choking on his own vomit, because that was funny to _him_.

When Edward was finished choking on his vomit, he sat back in the passenger's seat, breathing heavily. Edward wiped his mouth, sickness on his hand now, the smell merciless, molding. Edward held his breath, only to release it, grimacing. Kimblee reached over and ran his thumb across Edward's lip, smearing sickness, smiling. Edward didn't retract, Kimblee would have reacted violently, and Edward couldn't take anymore. His face was bruised, cuts still bleeding, his head pounding, beating his brain into a bloody pulp. Kimblee removed his hand, then, returning it to the steering wheel, and driving away. There was silence, except for Edward, who was struggling to breathe. Edward placed his hand over his heart, feeling his heart beat through his chest. His heart didn't sound right, and it didn't feel right, something was _wrong_.

Kimblee looked over at Edward, he wasn't smiling, speaking, a statement, lacking sympathy, "What the fuck is wrong with you. I didn't hit you that hard."

It was not his intention to antagonize Kimblee, but Edward couldn't think, so he settled for an infuriatingly vague, "Its nothing."

Kimblee looked away, unconvinced, angry now. Kimblee stopped the car, turning to face Edward, frowning, "Why do you have to be such a cunt, _Ed?_ Why does everything have to be so fucking difficult with you?"

Edward looked away, his voice low, horse, "I'm sorry."

And Kimblee turned away.

While Edward was away, and or, trying to kill himself, certain developments had been made in the case. The biggest development was that the man that they were looking for was an alchemist. Edward had suspected as much, but had chosen to keep it to himself. That, in itself, was cause for action. The investigations department wasn't equipped to handle an errant alchemist. That was why Edward was with Kimblee, because they were more than prepared to kill a man, especially a madman. It didn't matter if Edward couldn't transmute material, he didn't need alchemy to kill. At some point, Edward gave way to a gun, as did Kimblee. Alchemy was messy, bullets were clean, alchemy was an aid, and that was all.

They arrived at an uninhibited apartment complex, south Central, the last known location of the alchemist. The building was worn, the roof collapsing, the paint peeling. Kimblee stopped the car, emerging, Edward not far behind. When Edward did stand, he felt weak, out of breath, but he slung his rifle across his back, following Kimblee inside, nonetheless. The building was dark, sunken, and _silent_. There was magnesium on the walls, wafting through the air, white. There was a circle in the center of the lobby, intricate, overtaking the entire floor. Kimblee kneeled down and smeared the circle, eggshells and blood, no sand, but salt. Kimblee looked at Ed, who was staring down the hallway, blackness there, something sinister just beyond the edge of the light. Kimblee stood, then, walking towards the black expanse.

"Ed," Edward turned to face Kim, but Kimblee wasn't speaking, " _Edward_." Edward looked around the room, his eyes landing on the decapitated head, rotten, atop an abandoned dresser. Edward took a step back, his eyes shifting towards Kim, but he wasn't watching, then back towards the head, who was frowning, "He's knows you're here," it was grimacing now, "I would run if I were _you_."

It was sudden, Edward taking Kimblee's arm, "Blow up the fucking building."

Kimblee was cruel, but Kimblee wasn't stupid. Kimblee knew that something was wrong, just as the manifestation had spoken to Edward. There was a rumbling beneath their feet, a roar down the hallway, something shrill then, bellowing. Kimblee's head turned, as did Edward's, towards the darkness, the sound surging, earsplitting. Edward set his rifle, aiming into the darkness, but he didn't shoot, because he couldn't see. He was blinded by the sound, like his ears were bleeding, but they were, and so were Kimblee's, the blood dripping down their necks.

The head was laughing now, "The monster is coming," spitting blood through its teeth, "and he's gonna eat you, chomp, chomp, chomp. _Edward_ , are you listening to me?"

Edward was staring into the darkness, waiting, waiting, _waiting_ , and suddenly, silence. The rumbling ceased, quiet now. The air was ringing, shrill, humming like a swarm of hornets. Edward reached up and pressed his hand over his ear, holding the gun steady, and shutting his eyes. His jaw clicked, his skin was cold, crawling, and Edward took a breath, opening his eyes. There was a man standing amongst the darkness, tall, slender, black in contrast to the light. The man had no expression, he was empty, his eyes red. There was a _bang_ , Edward took a shot, _the_ shot, plumb, right through the heart. Kimblee grabbed the barrel of the gun, pushing it to the side, " _The fuck_ , Ed."

Edward was staring at the man, uneasy, unconvinced, "He's not dead."

Kimblee frowned, turning towards the man, watching as he bled onto the floor. His blood was black, _almost_ black, coagulating, and yet, converging. The blood congealed, forming a mass, amassing, creeping back towards the man, soaking back in through his skin. Kimblee took a step back, unamused, and maybe, he was even afraid. Edward didn't move, though, he was fixed, frozen in place. There was something wrong, the man wasn't a man, he was a monster, dissolving into the darkness. There was a scream, abrupt, abhorrent in sound, screeching. It was the man, speaking, but he had no voice. The man touched the floor, and there was light, blue, and everything went black.


	19. it was December

Syphon

Chapter 19: it was December

When Edward opened his eyes, he was standing before the gate. There was no one standing beside him, Edward was solitary, except for the demon, black upon his throne. The demon wore a crown upon his head, resting just above his horns, gold and glossy. The demon was smiling, staring at Edward, yellow in his eyes, red gums and silver teeth, rancid as they were rotting. The demon turned his head, acknowledging the gate, shut, and he turned back towards Edward, grimacing. The demon motioned with his hand, his fingers like knives, and the gate opened, slowly, hands pulling at the seams, prying the door open. Edward took a step back, but he didn't move, he remained in the same place. The hands were through the gate, crawling towards him, blackness pooling around his feet. Edward shut his eyes, knowing that this was the end, because the hands were going to drag him into the darkness, _death_.

But the hands retreated, suddenly, back into the darkness, slinking back into the depths of the door. The gate shut, soundlessly, and the demon frowned, his expression downturned, until he smiled, his tongue slithering inside his mouth, "Edward, how good it is to see you," and the demon paused, " _again_."

Edward opened his eyes. He looked to his hands, skin and bones, metal fingers, and he looked to his legs, once flesh, now metal. He was still whole, as whole as he could be, and Edward looked to the demon, "Why am I here."

The demon laughed, "A monster learned from your mistakes," and the demon flicked his tongue, like a snake, scowling, "he failed once, too, but you flourished where he failed." The demon clicked his tongue, tapping his fingers against his iron throne, "You only did one thing wrong, Edward. You assumed that everything was equal, but there is no equality. Equivalent exchange is a lie." And the demon smiled, sly, serpentine, "But you know that now, don't you?"

Edward didn't know how to feel, he couldn't remember how he got here or what he had done. He wasn't sure if he was being punished, or if he was dead, and Edward frowned, his expression one of misunderstanding, "Are you going to take something from me?"

The demon sighed, "You're not listening to me, Edward."

Edward was having trouble comprehending what the demon was saying, he was confused, his mind chaotic, "I don't understand."

The demon smiled, sinister, snarling, "He's going to let me out. You know what happens if he lets me out, _Ed_." Edward shook his head, he was listening, but he couldn't understand the words. But the demon wasn't finished, he was still speaking, with sovereignty, with sight, " _Everybody fucking dies_."

Edward shut his eyes, tight, his ears were ringing, and he bared his teeth, "No." Edward was no longer speaking, but the words remained, circling inside his brain, _no, no, no_. Edward covered his mouth with his hand, he was nauseous, but he swallowed the vomit, speaking, "He can't."

"Why not, Edward? Because he doesn't have the stone? Because _you_ used the stone?" And when Edward didn't respond, " _Edward_ , are you listening to me?"

Edward was shaking his head, "Shut up."

The demon sat back against his throne, "He's just like you, Ed. He lost parts of himself trying to bring back someone he loved. And now, let's just say, he said _fuck you_ , because this time, he's going to take everybody with him." The demon smiled, "Do you know why you're here, _Ed?_ "

Edward looked away, "I can't remember."

A laugh, "The monster tried to sacrifice you, and it should have worked, but, you are protected and plagued by this place. Human, with material, with immaterial. Things are never what they seem, Edward. They are never simple, especially here, in this place." The demon sighed, "I may be all seeing, all knowing, sitting before the gate, but things are liable to change. I know what you have given, and I know what I have taken, and I think that we can come to some sort of compromise."

Edward looked at the demon. This wouldn't be the first time that Edward made a deal with the devil, not once, but twice, had Edward made that mistake. But this was different, the circumstances were different, because Edward wasn't responsible, not for this, and if he were, indirectly so. A long time ago, Edward made the decision to live with his mistakes, with the consequences, accepting the fact that he fucked up. It made him wise, but Edward wasn't wise, he wasn't stupid, but not wise. The demon wanted him to make a deal, but it was a trap, to take his arm, his leg, his organs, his bones, because the demon knew desperation, because the demon was in the _business_ of desperation. There was a part of Edward that wanted to make a deal, thinking that something good might come from it. But there was an opposition in Edward's brain, protesting, _don't do it, don't do it, don't do it_. And suddenly, Edward spoke, unable to stop himself, "Let's make a deal."

The demon clapped his hands, the sound sharp, and the demon laughed, "I always liked you, Ed. You were never afraid of the consequences, not until you had to live with them, _that is_." And the demon stood, Edward standing in his shadow, "And because I like you, and because it's always such a pleasure doing business with you, I propose a trade."

Edward swallowed, sick in his throat, "I agree."

The demon took a step forward, "For your life, I want your leg. Do you accept?"

Edward forced the words out through his teeth, "Yes."

The demon took another step forward, pausing, only to run his hand through Edward's hair. The demon took a step back, crossing his arms, contemplating, all the while tapping his talons against his chin. The demon smiled, then, "For your sickness, I want sight, just one eye. Do you accept?"

Once again, Edward forced the words to manifest, trying to stifle a sob, "Yes."

The demon turned and walked back to his throne, "While we're on the subject, I would like to make you an offer. A clean slate, that's what you really want, isn't it?"

Edward was sobbing, it was uncontrollable, " _Yes_."

"Here's the problem, Ed. I don't want that asshole to open the gate, I'll lose business. If everybody's dead, I have nothing to take, I'll have nothing to do. Honestly, _Ed_." The demon looked to the side, sneering, and he smiled, a statement, "If I give you back your alchemy, will you bring the monster to me?"

Edward could no longer look the demon in the eyes and he looked away, "Yes."

The demon's lips curled back, exposing his teeth, "For your alchemy, I want your tongue. Do you accept?"

For a moment, Edward couldn't speak. He was already beginning to feel empty, overexposed, he was giving away too much, _things that he didn't want to give away_. But Edward spoke, regardless, his voice strained, " _Yes_." Edward covered his mouth with his hand, trying to smother himself, suppressing a sob, and speaking around it, "I agree."

The demon was laughing, "For your debt, you owe me nothing, and as far as I'm concerned, you're free." Edward shut his eyes, shaking his head, salt in his tears, and he wiped them away, with dismay, with _disgust_ , because he couldn't just let it go, because he couldn't just give up. The demon stopped laughing, his voice sharp, his tone sweltering, "Again, it's been a pleasure doing business with you, _Edward_." And the demon paused, "Look at me, Edward. _Look at me_." Edward opened his eyes. The demon was staring at him, smiling, and he spoke, with cynicism, "I'd hurry up, though, because that leg isn't going to last long."

There was a flash of light and the demon was gone.

Edward was holding Kimblee's arm, and he was about to speak, _blow up the fucking building_ , but there was no sound. Edward released Kimblee's arm, reaching for his mouth, trying to grasp his tongue. But his mouth was empty, his tongue absent, amputated. Edward reached into his mouth, feeling the blood between his fingers, smearing the blood, choking on it. Edward tried to make a sound, but it was more of a groan, as he retracted his hand. And pain, suddenly, in his knee, his ankle, weakness setting in. His foot was beginning to feel numb, and without warning, Edward pushed Kimblee out of his way.

Kimblee turned to face Edward, he was going to speak, but he shut his mouth, panic stifling the sound. It wasn't long before Kimblee took a step back, his hands red, inflamed, turning purple. He was staring at his fingers, convulsing, in realization, because Kimblee had spoken with the demon, and for his life, he made a sacrifice. His hands for his life, that was the price. For Kimblee, destruction was his enterprise, _boom_ , but without his hands, he had no alchemy. He was nothing without alchemy, without fire, without gunpowder, _nothing_. Kimblee looked away from his hands, watching as Edward ran towards the darkness, limping, as though his leg were rotten, and Kimblee turned, running out of the building. He was afraid, because he had lost something, like Edward had lost things, pieces, parts, an arm, a leg, and in a single moment, Kimblee understood. _This is what it feels like to lose something._

The pain was physical, burning, with blackness creeping towards his heart. The cut wasn't clean, it was sick, spreading like fire, soldering like fire. His hands were black, his arms black, the blackness in his veins, in his blood, and just as equivalent exchange was a lie, Kimblee collapsed, in suspension, with seizure, foaming at the mouth. He was breathing, or, at least, he thought he was breathing, but that was only until his throat swelled shut and he started to suffocate. Kimblee was looking up at the sky, blue, turning red, his vision white, his eyes closing, his heart beating, _thump, thump, thump_. His hands were melting into the concrete, his bones crumbling into dust, his heart still beating, _thump_ , one second, _thump_ , two seconds, _thump_ , three seconds, until his heart stopped. Kimblee tried to speak, but his teeth had softened, his tongue twisting around his throat, no words, not from Kim.

Because Kimblee was dead.

Edward was certain that he wasn't going to make it. There was a part of Edward that knew he couldn't do it, he couldn't cut off his leg, _not again_. But there was a part of Edward that knew that he had to, because if he didn't, he leg would rot, the sickness spreading, the cause of death, poison. Edward knew that his leg was already turning black, dead weight, disintegrating, the infection in his bones, boiling towards the surface. He remembered the feeling, like he was rotting from the inside out, _and the pain_. Edward had forgotten the pain, but that was only because it had been replaced by an ache, and, in theory, by other pain. And deep down, really deep down, Edward knew that he made the right choice, freedom in place of physical things. Edward could live without his legs, his tongue, because those things didn't matter, no now, not anymore. Edward had been waiting for a second chance, for redemption, to be revenant, his entire life, and this was it.

Edward turned suddenly, expecting Kim, but Kimblee wasn't there. He was alone, except for the monster, still slumbering in the darkness. Edward knew that the gate governed time, which was why he returned before the monster struck the circle. The gate was like a loop, convoluting things, rearranging things, all the while remaining the same. The withdrawal gave Edward some time, he was slow, stumbling in the darkness, until he heard something shift, and then, silence. For a moment, Edward was still, he was breathing through his mouth, spitting blood onto the floor, listening to the monster creep. Edward couldn't see the monster, but he knew that it was there, right in front of him. Edward clapped his hands, blue light illuminating the room, and the monster, red eyes and red teeth.

The monster bared its teeth, charging, trying to push Edward back towards the circle. Edward was walking backwards, slowly, allowing the monster to step into the light. He was more monster than man, a reflection of his humanity, wearing his insides as his outsides. The monster bellowed, bloated with blackness, his hands upon eggshells. Edward was standing just outside of the circle, ready, unsteady, and out of time. His leg was on fire, the pain sharp, like needles, like knives, and Edward fell to his knees, his knee cap splitting in half. The monster would try to sacrifice him, but Edward had smeared the eggshells, no more circle. Edward clapped his hands, again, finding strength, and only when the monster stood above him, did Edward take ahold. The monster struggled, in exasperation, in anger, but Edwards grip was true, and the endeavor was done. There was a scream, the monster, followed by silence, no more monster.

Edward released a breath, swallowing blood, breathing through the blood, and he shut his eyes. His leg, he had to cut off his leg. But that wasn't his first thought, more like, _this isn't going to work, I'm going to bleed to death, I'm going to fucking die_. Edward didn't want to die, not now, but Edward took out his knife, nonetheless, and he took a breath. The first cut was always the worst, and then the second, and the third, the pain increasing, incessant, and irate. It was a delayed reaction, Edward's realization, resignation, followed by pain, and then hopelessness. Edward was down to the bone, only this time, Edward didn't have a hammer, so he used his hand, metal, to break the bones, _snap_. Edward wanted to scream, but he couldn't scream, he couldn't make a sound.

Edward was bleeding, it was uncontrollable, blackness in his blood, the tourniquet weak. Edward was exhausted, like he wasn't going to make it, but he pushed forward, making the final cut. Edward dropped the knife, indistinguishable amongst the pool of bloody pulp, and he collapsed. Edward thought that he heard his name, his mother's voice, but it was far away and he was too tired to listen. The world was closing in, darkening, and Edward could feel himself drifting away, quietly, no pain now, just silence, and Edward let the darkness take him, _home_.


	20. intermission pt3

Syphon

Chapter 20: intermission pt. 3

Edward was young, summer time, _home_ , Alphonse younger, their mother sitting on the porch, watching. Alphonse was collecting tiger lilies by the pond and Edward was supervising, something that was expected of him, but he didn't mind. When Alphonse had picked as many flowers as he could hold, he handed them to Edward, only to collect more. Alphonse always brought flowers home to their mother, lilies mostly, as it was her favorite flower, and in the spring, wildflowers, and in the fall, pine cones and berries. Edward was a bystander to Alphonse's ornamentations, he carried what Alphonse gave to him, and he presented them to his mother for Alphonse, because Alphonse loved the way their mother smiled at them, with _love_.

Edward tried to be a good son, but he was never good, just problematic. But Trisha still loved him, somehow, even when he got into fights or when he was expelled from school. She didn't expect the same things from Edward as their father had, to be a doctor, a lawyer, to pray on the weak. Trisha left Edward alone, knowing that he never wanted to be those things, but it was in guilt, because she had never stopped Hohenheim from hurting him. Trisha was protected by the notion that she never handed Edward a gun or made him shoot, or locked him in the basement, or beat him, she just let him be. That was enough for Trisha to move on, thinking that she could be a better mother, to Ed, to Alphonse, but that was selfish, because she _had been_ selfish. Trisha let Edward do whatever he wanted, within reason, because it was better for everyone when Edward was calm, he could be a burden, having already acquired several inset problems.

Edward couldn't be left alone, as in, by himself, behind closed doors. Edward was self-destructive, a behavior that he continued throughout his adult life, which was never dealt with. It was hard for Trisha to understand Edward, because Alphonse was happy and Edward was not. Edward didn't want to do anything, he would lay in bed most of the day, through the night, in depression, but he wasn't necessarily sad, just unfeeling. Alphonse would climb into Edward's bed, shake him, begging him to get up, but Edward would push him away. Eventually, Trisha would try to get Edward up, but Edward was bitter towards her, never disrespectful, just bitter. Trisha would ask Edward to do something specific, like go with Alphonse down to the pond, or take him into the corn fields, and Edward would do it, reluctantly, but he would do it. Trisha knew that she couldn't command Edward to do anything, he would shut down. So Trisha decided to remain indirect, using Alphonse as incentive, until even Alphonse wasn't enough.

Trisha had to make sure that Edward was OK, constantly, hour after hour. Edward had been inherently worse when Hohenheim was still around, collecting sharp objects, chemicals from the laundry, matches, things that seemed innocuous, but with intent, unpleasant. Trisha was aware that Edward was hurting himself, knowing that it was a reflection of the hurt that he was receiving, but she couldn't bring herself to accept it. Edward was young, but he was old, harboring hate for his father, against himself, but it was only skin deep, inconsequential, even. That was, until Trisha found Edward in the bathroom, stabbing himself in the stomach with a pair of scissors. At first, she was immobile, in shock, and then she was screaming, wrenching the scissors from Edward's hands. She didn't know what else to do but scream, to shake him, because her son would never do anything so horrifying, so _hideous_ , as that.

There was no real explanation for what Edward had done, just consequence. Trisha took Edward to the hospital, he was bleeding to death, half conscious, and when the doctors decided that Edward was stable, there were questions. Edward had been mutilating himself for some time, his thighs, deep, bitter cuts, enough to bruise, and his sinuses, burnt, from chemical excess. There were other things, though, physical abuse, sexual abuse, because Edward never let anyone see how much that it hurt. The police arrived forthwith, taking Alphonse away, prohibiting Trisha from seeing Edward. They began questioning her, for hours, until she convinced them that Hohenheim was to blame. He was, but so was she. The police relented Alphonse back to her custody, arresting Hohenheim instead, but Edward never took him to court or pressed charges, so Hohenheim left, and that was that.

After Hohenheim left, things didn't really get any better. Edward was still unable to function, Alphonse was scared that the police would take him away again, and Trisha felt as though things couldn't get any worse. But they did, when she fell ill, heart failure. Alphonse was very brittle, and Edward was despondent, especially after he returned home from the hospital, and Trisha found herself unable to relay the information. She had been feeling faint for a couple of weeks before she went to the doctor, and the doctor had initially said that she was under too much stress, not to worry, to take it easy. But when the test results came back, positive, negative, it didn't matter, suddenly, there was no cure. Trisha knew that she had to tell Edward, because Edward would have to take care of Alphonse, but Trisha couldn't justify relenting custody of Alphonse to Edward, Edward couldn't even take care of himself.

Trisha came home one day, several weeks after her diagnosis, finding Edward on the couch, sleeping, but he wasn't sleeping, just wasting away, and she sat down beside him, picking up his head and placing it in her lap. Edward allowed her to do this, he didn't fight her, and Trisha ran her hands through his hair, long, blonde, and she spoke, "Edward, I have to talk to you about something."

Edward didn't open his eyes, he was sedated, pills from the hospital, from the doctors, and he mumbled something, incoherent, incomprehensible, shifting closer to his mother, resting then. Trisha didn't speak, she was listening to Edward breathing, steady, and for a moment, she considered that Edward had fallen asleep, until he spoke, "What, mom."

Trisha didn't feel like telling Edward that she was dying, he was content, which was abnormal, but comforting. Trisha was afraid of how Edward would react, without feeling, lacking surprise, apathetic. She needed Edward to take control, to feel something, and with regret, Trisha released a sigh, speaking, "I'm sick, Edward. I don't," and Trisha took a breath, trying not to sob, "I don't have much time."

Edward didn't respond right away. It seemed as though he understood the information, was aware of the gravity of the situation, and chose to simply ignore the facts. Edward was rubbing his eyes, he was tired, but there was something else there, beneath the surface, gnawing away at his skin and bones. Edward sat up, suddenly, pulling away from his mother, resting his head in his hands, heavy, his eyelids, heavy, and he looked away. Edward opened his mouth, but he didn't speak, he grimaced, shutting his eyes, while Trisha took his hand. Trisha didn't speak, not yet, she was allowing Edward to come to terms with her sickness, with her death, and only until Edward opened his eyes did he speak, "How long."

Trisha wanted to hold her son, but she remained distant, holding onto his hand, "A year, maybe, two years, I don't know." Trisha wiped her eyes, she was weeping, but Edward refused to look at her, "Edward, look at me, _please_ , look at me." Edward wrenched his hand away, holding it against his chest, and Trisha stood, sitting down beside her son, embracing him, "I'm sorry, baby, _I'm so sorry_."

Edward did nothing. Trisha was cradling Edward's head in the crook of her neck, weeping to him, for him, but she couldn't hold him too tight, the stiches might burst. The wounds had been deep, Edward had been ill, but he was recovering, just like he always did, unaccepting of comfort of any kind. But Trisha wanted Edward to know that she loved him, that she was guilty, and that she had failed, not only him, but Alphonse, too. Trisha had seen Hohenheim hit Edward, but she had turned away, as though it were the first and last time. Alphonse had seen Hohenheim strike Edward, Alphonse would cry, unknowing of what to do. Alphonse was afraid, and Edward was sad, that was her fault, and she was the only one to blame. Trisha believed that her guilt had manifested as disease, heart disease, because that was what she deserved. She didn't have the heart to save her sons so her heart was broken, it only seemed fair.

Eventually, Edward rested his head, relenting unto the comfort of his mother. He closed his eyes, he could hear Trisha weeping, which made him sad, but angry, equally. Edward could feel the weight of her words settle upon him, and Edward knew that he wasn't strong enough, that he couldn't take care of Alphonse, _he_ couldn't do it, not him, not Edward. It didn't matter how Edward felt about his mother, she was trying, and Alphonse needed her, someone stable, and someone loving, to take care of him. Edward wasn't loving, he was cold, uncaring, the opposite of what Alphonse needed. Al didn't respond to negative reinforcement, not like Edward, not bruises or bloody lips, he needed someone gentle, someone kind, someone that really, really, cared. Edward didn't care, it made him unhappy, but he didn't feel unhappiness, something like emptiness, just as he felt indifference towards his mother. Edward wanted to love his mother in return, to accept her love, to forgive her, but he never really loved her in the first place.

Edward couldn't really remember what had happened, why he was sad, why mom was sad, he remembered being in the kitchen, taking the scissors, and going into the bathroom. After that, Edward woke up in the hospital, surrounded by people that he didn't know, asking him questions that he didn't want to answer. A couple of days later, a woman brought Alphonse to see him, Alphonse taking the opportunity to climb into bed with him, and remaining, until the woman told Al that he had to leave. Alphonse didn't respond well, he clung to Edward, to the wires, to the bandages, but Edward couldn't even lift his had to stop Alphonse, to hold him, to do anything, _pills_ , they had given him so many pills. It was then, when Alphonse had been dragged out of the room, that Edward knew what he wanted, and what he wanted, were pills. When Edward left the hospital, the doctor asked about his pain, and because Edward wasn't stupid, he said, with exaggeration, "It _hurts_." The doctor gave him a hefty prescription for painkillers, which Trisha allowed, thinking that Edward was suffering, but Edward liked the pain, the sutures, the strife, the pills weren't for that, they were for something else.

Edward could have lied and said that he was fine, he wasn't, he was having trouble getting around, but he didn't take the pills for that. He would lay in bed, aching, nauseous from the pain, but he wouldn't take the pills, not until Trisha left the house to go to work. Alphonse wasn't home either, he was at school, then daycare, because Edward couldn't pick him up. Trisha had asked their neighbors, a young couple, to check on Edward, but Edward didn't do much, just lie around, high. At the time, Edward didn't know what he was doing, only that he felt good, better, not like himself, which was what he wanted. Time was immaterial to Edward, days became night, day again, one day, now another, but it had been weeks, months, since he had come home from the hospital. His wounds had healed, but Edward broke the skin, over, and over again, it was easy, and Edward was happy, not happy, for a moment.

That was, until his mother told him that she was dying.

Trisha had stopped crying, her grip tightening around Edward. She never knew if Edward understood how much that she loved him, or that she cared, or the guilt, the horrible, unsustainable, guilt. At times, she felt as though she didn't know her son, he was a stranger, she didn't know what he liked or what he didn't like, his favorite things to eat, or his favorite color. Edward didn't talk about girls, getting married, having kids, he was young, but everyone thought about the future. Trisha wondered what Edward was thinking, his reactions were so volatile, so violent, he would fight the other kids at school, beat them until he drew blood, just to be cruel. But on the other hand, he would play music delicately, with grace, the piano, the cello, almost like he had passion and purpose. There was a fissure somewhere in Edward's brain, and maybe, Trisha should have tried to help him, take him to therapy, make him talk about all the things that made him angry, or afraid. _Anything_. Just enough to know that he was OK, because Edward was not _OK_ , and Trisha knew that.

Trisha was the first to speak, but her words were unsteady and unrelenting, "I want you to know that everything is going to be OK. You and Alphonse are going to be fine," and Trisha released Edward, holding him at arm's length, "I promise." Trisha was looking Edward in the eyes, but he wasn't there, he was distant, and she knew that it was the pills. She knew that Edward was in pain, but it was a different kind of pain, not the kind that painkillers were for, not physical, not in the flesh. She knew that he didn't know what he was doing, Edward didn't understand addiction, he was a child, and in a single moment, Trisha knew that she had failed her son, _again_. She was letting her son take pills that he didn't need, pills that shouldn't have been prescribed to him in the first place, and she did nothing. Trisha let go of Edward's arms, running her hand down his face, taking his chin, lifting his head, trying to smile, but she wasn't smiling, "I'll be right back, baby, stay here, I'm going to fix this."

Edward watched Trisha stand, turn, and walk towards the bedrooms, more specifically, his bedroom. When Trisha disappeared beyond the threshold, Edward felt cold in his spine, finding his way to his feet, but he couldn't stand, and he sat back down. Edward's voice was hoarse when he spoke, "Mom," but Trisha didn't answer him, and suddenly, Edward was nauseous, "mom?" Again, there was no response. Edward could feel his heart beating, he was sweating now, speaking then, borderline screaming, " _Mom?_ "

Trisha emerged from his bedroom with a small bottle, blue in color, Edward's name imprinted on the label. Trisha was standing before her son, holding the bottle before him, concern in her voice, a command, " _No more_ , do you hear me?" Edward felt his mouth move, but he couldn't form the words, and Trisha continued, "We are going to be better, both of us." And Trisha turned and walked out of the house, pills and all.


	21. intermission pt4

Syphon

Chapter 21: intermission pt. 4

After Edward came home from the hospital, Alphonse wouldn't leave him alone. Alphonse would lay in bed with Edward, watching him sleep, talk to him, even though Edward wasn't awake. But that was before Trisha took away his pills, all of them, down to the last. It had become apparent to Trisha that Edward could not take care of Alphonse, he was struggling, drowning in a shallow pool of pessimism and pain. It had only been a day since Trisha had taken the pills away from Edward, he was angry, not angry, agonizing over pressed powder. Edward never left the couch, he was having trouble standing, from the pills, the sutures, Trisha wasn't really sure. Edward refused to talk to her, he would look away in defiance, in disobedience, in spite of her. Eventually, Edward laid back down, remaining until the next morning, and or, until Alphonse ran to the couch to wake him.

Edward's reaction was unsolicited, Alphonse had done nothing wrong, but the medication was wearing off and Edward was irrational. At first, Edward felt sick, more so, nauseous, the nausea making way for pain, sharp, in his stomach. When Alphonse touched him, it was like his skin was on fire, and he pushed Alphonse away. It was violent, but Edward didn't hurt Alphonse, it was a gentle push, sudden, scaring Alphonse more than anything. Trisha heard the interaction from the kitchen, it was Saturday, she was making breakfast, and when she walked into the living room, Alphonse was crying and Edward was running towards the bathroom. Trisha heard the door slam, panic swelling up inside her like sickness, and she ran to the bathroom, but Edward had locked the door. Trisha could hear Edward vomiting, he was wrenching painfully, gasping for air. For a moment, there was silence, and Trisha knocked on the door, speaking, "Edward, open the door."

Edward could hear his mother, but he wasn't ignoring her, he was staring into the toilet, nauseous at the sight of his bloody vomit. Edward shut his eyes, his head shifting to the side, involuntary. He wanted to cry, but he was unable, and as suddenly as the sensation appeared, it disappeared, and Edward flushed the toilet, unlocking the door. Trisha opened the door as soon as she heard the lock click, pulling Edward into the hallway, exposing him, reprimanding him, "Are you OK, Ed?" Edward looked away and Trisha raised her voice, she wasn't screaming, but she was stern, "Look at me, Edward." Edward turned his head towards his mother, she looked angry, but upset, and she took him by the arm, holding fast, "You know the rules, Ed. You are not allowed to lock the door, do you hear me?" Edward looked away, again, shaking his head in acknowledgement, and Trisha let go of his arm, pointing towards Alphonse, "Apologize to your brother." Once again, Edward shook his head, and he was about to walk away, to do as he was told, when Trisha hugged him, speaking softly, "Please, don't do that again."

When Trisha released Edward, he apologized to Alphonse, halfheartedly, unsure of what he had done wrong. Edward was still thinking about the blood and if he should tell his mother. She would be upset, she would be angry, so Edward decided to say nothing, and he sat back down on the couch. Trisha was still standing in the hallway, she had turned away, she was weeping, but she wiped her tears and sat down next to her sons, smiling, but it was strained, "Come into the kitchen, breakfast is ready."

Alphonse was the first to stand, flittering towards the kitchen, followed by Trisha, who paused when Edward didn't stand. Edward was conflicted, relived, feeling revulsion, because the thought of food was revolting, unbearably so. Edward swallowed, sickness in his throat, and he looked up at his mother, "I'm not hungry."

Trisha spoke in concern, "You need to eat, Ed. You haven't been eating enough."

Edward clenched his teeth, still porcelain, "I don't want to."

Edward's defiance was unwarranted, and Trisha knew that the conversation was going nowhere. Edward wouldn't eat, he hadn't been eating, just lying in bed, taking pills. Trisha felt overwhelming sadness, and she sat back down beside her son, resting her hand on his shoulder, "You keep losing weight, Edward, you're so thin. Please, _eat_."

It was true that Edward had been losing weight. Edward's poor eating habits had always existed, he felt imperfect, especially when his father touched him, but it was really uncleanliness, like his skin was dirty, _defiled_. Edward didn't know how to deal with what his father was doing to him, so he would force himself to vomit, as many times as it took, to feel OK. But Edward never felt OK, just exhausted, because the wrenching made his chest hurt and the bile burned his throat. It was only a matter of time before Edward would see the fruits of his labor, that being, either his stomach would bleed or his throat would bleed, both capable of killing him in his sleep. Edward knew that his mother didn't know, she didn't know about _things_ , just the things on the surface, things that she could see. There were things that Trisha couldn't see, but she was going to, not the worst, she would be dead by then, because Edward wasn't done making things worse, not yet.

When Edward was in the hospital, and when he became conscious, the doctors tried to get him to eat. Edward refused, he was then confronted by a feeding tube, and he relented, eating as little as possible, just enough to please them. Edward was malnourished, he had always been in poor health, in suffering, that was his _thing_. But that wasn't the true extent, things were far worse than what they seemed, intentionally, unintentionally, and Edward felt sad for a moment, speaking, "Mom."

Trisha was trying to look into Edward's eyes, but he refused to meet her stare, "What is it, Edward?"

Edward drew his brow, he felt confused, or torn, about confiding in his mother. He felt as though she wouldn't understand, or that she would, and that she would push him away, or worse, let him waste away. Edward spoke, then, reluctantly, "Is there something wrong with me?"

Trisha wasn't sure what she felt initially, it was an ambiguous feeling, like weight, physical in nature. Failure. That was the feeling, _absolute failure_. The words left her mouth before she even thought to speak, "No, baby, there's nothing wrong with you. _Nothing_." Trisha was crying again, having taken ahold of Edward's shoulder's both, "Don't say things like that, you're fine, just perfect." And Trisha held her son for the second time that day, in assurance, in reassurance, as though Edward would understand by osmosis.

But Edward pulled away, suddenly, looking away, "I don't believe you."

Trisha frowned, pursing her lips. Trisha tried to reach for her son, but Edward shifted further away, resting against the arm of the couch. Trisha wanted to show authority, but she was afraid that it would push Edward further away, "I don't understand. Why would you say something like that?"

Edward bit his lip, he was anxious, his blood pressure rising, his heart beating with uncontrollable autonomy. The sickness in his stomach was churning, the pain overwhelming, and he felt cold, in his hands, in his heart. Edward was going to say something, something prominent, important, but he settled for something physical, less powerful, "Mom, I'm cold."

Trisha was certain that Edward was going to say something else, that he was in pain, or that he had hurt himself, but the moment had passed, Edward unwilling to confide in her. Trisha shook her head in understanding, there was nothing more that she could do, not now. Trisha stood from the couch, and she sighed, but it wasn't a sigh, it was a sign of defeat. Trisha walked out of the living room and into Edward's bedroom, empty, because Edward had no interests, no idols, nothing. Trisha opened the closet, finding a sweater, blue, one that she had knitted herself, and she held it in her hands. Edward was always cold, it was in his nature, and all Trisha had ever wanted was for her son to feel warm, _that was the truth_. But the truth was that there was something wrong with Edward, and even though she had assured him otherwise, Trisha knew the truth, and the truth was, Edward was dead inside.

Trisha walked out of the bedroom, but Edward was no longer sitting on the couch, he was gone, absent. She ran to the kitchen, just Alphonse, no Edward, and she ran outside, searching, and the panic, it was in her throat, she was screaming, " _Edward!_ " But Edward wasn't there, the fields were empty, green, and lush with corn, the stocks swaying in the wind. Trisha felt a pain in her chest, it was small at first, but the pain grew, louder, sharper, until she couldn't breathe. Trisha reached for something, anything, but there was nothing beside her, just open expanse, and nothingness, spinning, spinning, spinning. Trisha stood for only a moment more, the world had stopped, suddenly, and the sky was no longer blue, but grey, the grass was no longer green, but colorless, and she collapsed.

Trisha could hear her name, the voice was soft, unassuming, Edward's voice, "Mom." There was a pause, uncertainty, but he continued then, the words lacking sentiment, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

Trisha opened her eyes, Edward was sitting on the grass next to her, squinting, because the sun hurt his eyes. Trisha couldn't remember when Edward's hair had become so light, or when his eyes had become so pale, and for a moment, Trisha felt as though she were seeing her son for the first time. Trisha wondered when Edward had changed, he used to be blonde, his eyes must have been brown, but he was different now. Trisha reached up and touched Edward's face, Edward taking her hand, and she spoke, "I know, baby, I know."

Trisha tried to sit up, but she felt weak, Edward helping her to stand. When she was ready to walk, Edward took ahold of her hand, leading her inside. Trisha followed, out of breath, coming to a sudden stop, "Edward?"

Edward stopped walking and turned to face his mother, "Yeah, mom?"

Trisha took another breath, inhaling, exhaling, and her voice fragile as she was faint, "I need to lie down, and I need you to watch your brother, OK? Can you do that," a breath, heavier than the last, "can you take care of him for a little while?"

Edward was looking into her eyes, "Yes."

Edward still holding onto Trisha's hand, and together they headed inside. When Trisha walked through the door, the house was quiet, and Trisha, who was worried about Alphonse, spoke, "Edward, where is your brother?"

Edward looked up at Trisha, his expression never changing, ever stagnant, "Alphonse is in the kitchen," and as a second thought, as though the information was significant, "he's coloring a picture for you."

Trisha sighed, appeased, and she nudged Edward's hand, urging him to lead her into the bedroom. Trisha crumbled onto her bed, like her bones had turned to gelatin, and before she let go of Edward's hand, she spoke to him, one last time, "Please, take care of your brother, Edward. _Please_." Trisha released Edward's hand, rolling onto her side, turning away from her son. Edward stayed, for a moment, contemplating, until he turned and walked out of Trisha's bedroom. Edward walked into the kitchen, then, finding that Alphonse was still sitting at the table, coloring.

Alphonse looked up when he saw Edward enter the kitchen, and he smiled, holding up his masterpiece. There were three stick figures, a woman in a dress, holding hands with her two sons, one blonde, one brown, smiling, except for the blonde son, his lips a straight line. "Look, Edward!" Alphonse was pointing at the figures, one at a time, "This is me, and this you, and this is mom." Alphonse never stopped smiling, but he did leave the table, just for a second, to put his drawing on the refrigerator. When he was finished, he picked up his crayons, put them back in their box, and ran over to Edward. "Can we go down to the pond, I want to pick flowers for mom."

Edward stared at Alphonse, trying to find words, anything that didn't sound apathetic, but there were none. Edward had a thought, then, motioning with his hand, towards the bedroom, "Mom is taking nap. Why don't you go see her, I'm sure that she'd like some company."

Alphonse cocked his head, thinking, he frowned, and then he smiled, "OK."

Alphonse skipped out of the kitchen leaving Edward alone. Edward picked up Alphonse's plate and put it in the sink, deciding to wash the dishes later. Edward collected Alphonse's coloring book, his construction paper, his crayons, and put them away, in a cabinet, in Al's bedroom. After an hour or so, Edward went to check on his mother, and Alphonse, who had decided to stay and sleep away the afternoon. Trisha was holding onto Alphonse as though he were immaterial, but Alphonse didn't mind, he always napped with mom, he was her _baby_. Edward stood in the doorway, watching, wondering why he had never been that way with mom. She tried to love him, but he didn't like it, not like Alphonse did. She would try to hug him, but he felt uncomfortable, but that was true of any affection. Edward walked over to the bed, covering his mother with a blanket and tucking Alphonse beneath the covers. Edward closed the curtains and shut the door, not tight, but ajar, taking one last look, and walking away.

Tomorrow, Edward would have to take Alphonse to school. He would ultimately stay home, mom had been struggling to get out of bed, she had been missing work, Edward had seen this, knowing that something was wrong even before Trisha had said so. Edward knew that he would have to tell Alphonse that their mother was dying, it was something that he didn't want to do, but he had to. It would hurt Alphonse, inside, in his guts, and he would cry. Alphonse would ask questions, but he would never understand, to him, it didn't matter the cause, or the reason why, because mom was leaving.

And that was the truth.


	22. intermission pt5

Syphon

Chapter 22: intermission pt. 5

The next morning, Trisha didn't get out of bed.

Edward hadn't slept the night before, he had become manic in the night, unable to express how he was feeling. He had done the dishes, swept the house, and made his bed, finding that, even after several hours, he was exhausted, however, still shaking. The shaking was in his chest, like his heart was beating, thump, thump, thump, followed by an echo, like a hum, rattling his bones. Edward didn't know how to describe the feeling, it was intangible, producing tangible sensation, as though it were a response to how he was really feeling, beneath all the bullshit, raw, like meat. Edward had taken Alphonse to school, but that had been hours ago, and now, Edward was sitting at the kitchen table, resting his head in his hands, willing the sensation to cease, just for a moment, he needed peace, not chaos, _but peace_.

Edward was thinking about his mother and the disease that was overtaking her, persistent, pessimistic, like pollution, and poison. She would be dead soon, months, not years, that had been a lie, something for Edward to hold onto, if only for a moment. Edward's train of thought shifted to Alphonse, his brother, sleeping next to his mother, his stronghold, and how he would crumble. Edward wasn't prepared for that, not that kind of pain, if it were physical, maybe, but it was inside, and Edward wouldn't be able to fix that. Hearts didn't heal like skin, they couldn't be sutured, and Edward didn't understand that, not fully, but it wasn't ignorance, just indifference. Again, Edward pushed one thought aside for another, sleepless, paranoid now, his father coming to mind, as though he were present. Edward wondered if they would live with their father, if he would take care of them, if he would still _touch_ him and tell Edward that he _loved_ him.

Edward felt an uneasy sensation upon remembering the taste, in his mouth, after his father had forced himself upon him. Edward felt sick in his stomach, sick in his brain, but the sickness was being smothered out by something else, and he was numb now, the numbness shoving the wicked thought back into the blackness. Edward let the memory fade, not disappear, but displace, until it returned, only for Edward to try to suppress it, again, and again. But Edward was distracted by a knock on the door, and he stood, walking to the window and looking outside. There was a boy standing on the porch, blonde, but darker, blue eyes, patiently waiting. Edward opened the door, slowly, staring at the boy, but he didn't speak.

The boy was taller, and he spoke, looking down at Edward, "Do you want to play with me?"

Edward looked away, uncomfortable, he had poor social skills, and that was putting it nicely. He wasn't sure what to say, or if he should speak at all, dad told him to keep his mouth shut, _shut your fucking mouth_ , and that's exactly what Edward did. It was unintentional, then, Edward's behavior, his head shifting to the side, it was violent, in violence, once, twice, three times.

The boy watched with uncertainty, unsure of what was wrong with Edward, "Are you allowed to come outside?"

Edward looked over his shoulder, towards the bedroom, as though his mother was watching. Trisha was still asleep and Edward wasn't allowed to go outside without asking permission. Trisha didn't trust him, and Edward didn't blame her. Edward turned back towards the boy, shaking his head, _no_ , and he was about to close the door, but the boy pushed the door open, exposing Edward, who was in the dark, now in the light. The boy was staring at Edward, at his hair, blonde, his eyes, blonde, until he spoke, "We just moved in next door, I saw you leave earlier, mom said you looked about the same age as me." The boy paused for a moment, expecting Edward to respond, and when he didn't, the boy continued, "I haven't started school yet, mom said that you might be home schooled, or something, I don't know."

Edward took a step back, cowering behind the door, and he did speak, but it was only a whisper, "I have to stay home with mom."

It was an honest answer, truth, with underlying deception. Edward didn't have to explain himself, the answer was meant to be ambiguous, not a lie, but not the truth, either. Edward was problematic, and at first, the school thought that he was autistic, because he didn't speak, because he didn't respond right away, or make eye contact. Edward was not a good student, he made poor marks, they even put him remedial classes for language and speech. Hohenheim tried to beat the dumb out of Edward, but he wasn't dumb, he was despondent, because he was being abused. Trisha knew that Edward was intelligent, he played several instruments at home, for her, when she asked him to play. Edward was also an alchemist, or a scientist, advanced in chemistry, physics, mathematics, because that was what it took to compose a circle. Edward had never been taught anything, he learned on his own, at night, in the dark, when he couldn't sleep.

Edward had been expelled from school, it had been over a year now, for a fight, which he didn't start. Edward had never done anything wrong, not intentionally, but because of his unapproachable nature and his constant disobedience, that made him _bad_. The other kids made fun of him, because he looked different, his eyes, his long hair, because children are _cruel_. It was not Edward's intention to fight back, he wanted to be left alone, but he had been backed into a corner, forcing him to make a decision. An older boy, taller, stronger, was taunting Edward, _I bet you like it when your daddy makes you suck his cock_ , and he was laughing, but so were the other kids. Edward reacted, violently, without restraint, taking the boy's arm, breaking it, half blood, half bone. A teacher walked in just as the event occurred, taking Edward to the office, and because he was a bad kid, because he did bad things, he was to blame. The school called Hohenheim, and he wasn't happy, not in the least. When they got home, Hohenheim struck Edward several times in the mouth, deciding then, that wasn't enough. Edward woke up on the kitchen floor, bleeding from his mouth, he couldn't remember what happened, because his father had beaten him until he blacked out.

But that was only part of the explanation. After that, Edward went off the deep end, stabbing himself, with the intention of killing himself, death a definite comfort. Trisha stopped him, though, taking him to the hospital, because Edward was too young to be fucked up like that, mutilating himself into a bloody mess. And the pills, they were meant to heal him, but they were taken from him, without his consent, even though he was still in pain. Pain, and pills, and upon thinking about the pills, Edward felt a physical longing for the high, and it was wrong, the feeling, how it was overwhelming, and attractive, addicting. And mom, he had to take care of her, she was sick, there was no one else. He had to be there for her, in case she needed help getting out of bed, to make sure she took her pills, to make dinner, to take Alphonse to school, to help Alphonse with his homework, everything that needed to be done. It was Edward's responsibility now, and he wasn't sure that he could do it.

But the boy didn't know those things, and for a moment, the boy stood, confused, or concerned, because the answer was vague. The boy shrugged, then, questioning, "Maybe, tomorrow?"

Edward spoke, still whispering, "OK."

The boy let Edward shut the door, and Edward sat down on the couch. There was silence, for a time, until Edward heard his name, it was mom, calling for him, "Edward." Edward turned his head, standing, and walked into the bedroom. His mother was lying on her back, breathing heavily, her eyes still closed, and she swallowed, her throat dry, "I need you to call the doctor, can you do that for me?" Edward shook his head, _yes_ , and he was about to walk away, when his mother stopped him, speaking, "Stay here, baby, _please_. Stay here." Edward took the phone from the nightstand and sat on the bed, he looked at his mother, who was holding onto his hand, and dialed the phone. Edward talked to a nurse, then the doctor, who wanted to talk to Trisha, but she had fallen to delirium. Edward spoke, with apathy, _she can't breathe,_ and the doctor said that he would be there in a few hours.

When the doctor arrived, Edward was told to wait in the other room. Trisha had taken a turn for the worse, Edward could hear the doctor talking, stating that he was going to change her medication, something to slow the disease. The doctor was on his way out when he noticed Edward sitting on the couch, and he walked over, sitting down beside him, "Everything is going to be OK." Edward didn't acknowledge the doctor, he just kept staring ahead, and the doctor spoke, resting his hand on Edward's thigh, "Are you alright, son? Are you eating enough? You look tired."

Edward looked down at the man's hand, feeling an all too familiar oppressiveness in his chest, and he stood, walking into his mother's bedroom and lying down beside her. Alphonse was dropped off a few hours later, he hugged Edward, who was waiting, and then his mother, who was still in bed. Edward made something for Alphonse to eat, even though there wasn't any food, and he brought something to his mother, but she didn't eat it. Alphonse retired next to his mother and Edward relented unto the couch, but he didn't sleep. Edward was hungry, but there wasn't any food, so he let the hunger pains eat away at his organs, hour after hour. Edward knew that there wasn't any money for food, either. Edward went to the mailbox every morning, he had seen the bills, overdue, with credit cards overdrawn. They were going to take the house soon, the bank had left several messages on the answering machine, angry, threatening. Trisha knew, but there was nothing that she could do, and Edward knew, but he didn't say anything.

The next day, Edward sent Alphonse to school, deciding, then, to walk into town, to the food pantry. Everyone in town talked about him, it was more than obvious. He was strange, his eyes almost white, like glass, and it made people uncomfortable. But Edward ignored them, because there was no use in trying to fight them, things would always be that way, always. When Edward arrived at the pantry, no one asked if he needed anything, or why he was there, if he needed help, they left him alone. Edward took as much food as he could, the pantry was only open one day a week, and there were only canned goods, which were heavy. Edward had to walk several miles into town, and when he returned home, hours later, the boy from next door was standing on the porch knocking on the door. Edward's first instinct was to run away, but his arms were tired, and the weight of the cans was excruciating. Besides, Edward was too tired to run, he hadn't been eating, not just because he refused to, but because he had given the remaining food to Alphonse.

The boy stood only a moment longer, deciding that no one was home, and turned, surprised then, to see Edward standing there. The boy smiled, expecting a smile in return, but Edward didn't change, not in the least. The boy descended the porch, walking towards Edward, offering his hand, "I can help you." Edward didn't move, he just stared at the boy's outstretched hand, tightening his grip around the provisions, shaking his head. Edward stepped away from the boy, walking around him, heading towards the house. The boy turned, following Edward up the stairs, "Hey, let me help you." The boy grabbed Edward's arm, but Edward didn't react well, he dropped the bag, the cans spilling across the porch, rolling down the stairs. Edward wrenched his hand away, and the boy took a step back, fearing that he had done something wrong, and he ran away.

Trisha had gotten out of bed upon hearing the interaction, and she was concerned, considering that Edward was supposed to be in the house. Trisha was in the hallway, heading towards the kitchen, "Is everything alright, Edward?" And when Trisha walked into the kitchen, Edward was stacking cans on the counter, his hands shaking. Trisha walked over to her son, taking his arm, forcing him to face her, "Baby, what's wrong? What happened? Are you OK?"

Edward was unsure of how he was feeling, the humming had returned, in his chest, his heart beating, _thump, thump, thump_ , under his breast. Edward felt out of breath, unsteady, and he spoke, whispering, "I went to get some food," and Edward took a breath, it was unstable, shuddering, "we didn't have any food."

Trisha pulled Edward towards her, embracing him, "You need to tell me when you leave, because I need to know that you're OK, _OK_?" Trisha could feel Edward shake his head, acknowledgement, and she sighed, holding fast, "Are you sure that you're OK, baby, you're shaking."

Edward couldn't control the shaking, it was overwhelming, and the feeling, like he wanted to cry, had returned, tenfold. Edward gripped the fabric of his mother's shirt, white knuckle, burying his face in her neck. He wanted to cry, it was in his throat, and he was sobbing, but there were no tears. Edward felt sadness, but it was more oppressive, like humidity, sticking to his skin. Edward allowed the feeling to subside, but it didn't fade, just fester, and Edward felt better, not better, and he pulled away.

Trisha let Edward pull away, but she didn't let him go. Edward's behavior was troubling, and Trisha didn't want to leave Edward alone, that would be unwise. So Trisha stood, causing Edward to stand, as she pulled out a chair. Trisha motioned for Edward to sit, she was trying to smile, but she couldn't, she was tired, exhausted, from standing. Trisha pulled out another chair, sitting opposite her son, and she spoke, "Why don't you tell me what happened?" Trisha was still holding Edward's hand, "Tell me what's wrong."

Edward looked away, whispering, "Yesterday, the boy from next door asked if I wanted to play. I said that I had to stay here, but he came back." Edward shifted in his chair, pulling his braid over his shoulder, "He just," and Edward paused, "he scared me, that's all."

Edward looked up at his mother, and she smiled, reassuringly, "I'm sure he didn't mean to scare you." And as a second thought, Trisha added, "You can go out and play, Edward, I don't mind." Trisha could see the apprehension in her son, and she let go of Edward's hand, tucking his hair behind his ear, _lovingly_ , "Just, be good. OK?"

Edward shook his head, _yes_ , "I'll be good."

Trisha smiled at Edward, happy, for a moment, that Edward had expressed genuine emotion. Edward had never really been emotionless, or inherently _bad_ , just misunderstood. Trisha knew that Edward wasn't empty, she had been mistaken, and maybe, she was angry, because she didn't understand him. Trisha stood, holding out her hand, and she spoke, softly, "Come with me." Trisha waited for Edward to stand, to take her hand, and when he did, she walked into the bedroom. Trisha lied down on the bed, Edward beside her, and when Alphonse came home, he crawled into bed beside them, and that was where they remained, all of them, together, until morning.


End file.
